For many of us, an enduring image will be that of the auto executives who flew in their corporate jets to Washington, D.C., seeking financial aid, only to be asked, "Couldn't you at least have downgraded to first class?"

I've been asking myself the same question as, like many, I've watched my nest-egg dwindle faster than I can spend it.

It's crazy to live alone in an 80-year-old, high-maintenance, three-bedroom, two-bathroom house with additional guest house - and third bathroom.

I chafed at the irony last Tuesday when I attended a meeting about the problems of homeless people in our community.

One gentleman was saying that the churches weren't able to provide temporary quarters and I asked, in all innocence, "Why not?"

"For the same reason you don't invite them into your home," he snapped (and later apologized).

It's the twin problems of insurance and security, but it doesn't make me feel any less guilty about my splendid solitude in spacious quarters.

Then there are the vehicles. I can drive only one at a time, but I own two, both in their teens with six digits on their respective odometers.

Friday I stopped by the bank to make a deposit (Yea - money coming in instead of going out!), and as I pulled away from the drive-up window, I couldn't get the van's electric window up.

I drove immediately to the auto-repair shop, where they know me well, and learned the window mechanism requires a new motor. That bank deposit cost me $160.

And then there is the ultimate luxury - dogs. This week's vet bill was for barium treatments for Daphne, the five-going-on-six-month-old puppy, who ate a sock that lodged in her colon.

She has many ways of chewing up money, both metaphorically and literally.

If I forget to close bathroom doors, she grabs the end of the toilet paper and runs around the house, creating a TP trail.

Trying not to be wasteful, I start rolling the paper back onto the spool, but then she thinks I'm playing tug of war and I end up with 50 feet of shredded paper.

Sadie, the venerable People Dog, gives me a shake of the head and a look that says, "See? I told you she'd be nothing but trouble."

So what would downgrading to first class look like?

It might be an apartment in the city, where I could use public transportation and attend endless rounds of concerts, art exhibits and other cultural events.

But no dogs. No group hugs when Sadie snuggles in close and Daphne gives a funny little ecstatic moan as I scratch her tummy.

OK, then. Just a smaller house with a yard.

But there'd be no river rolling past my back door, no geese giving a morning wake-up call, no ducks murmuring as they settle down at sunset.

Downgrading to first class is going to have to wait a while, when maybe the landing won't be so bumpy.

(Mary Koch is a freelance writer and editor. She can be reached at www.marykoch.com.)