You know you're lower-middle-class when you're still using these 7 household items that are falling apart

I realized I was lower-middle-class the day my college roommate saw me supergluing the handle back onto my coffee mug. "Why don't you just get a new one?" she asked, genuinely confused. The mug cost maybe $5 at Target. But in my house growing up, you didn't replace things that could still technically function.

That's the thing about being lower-middle-class—it's not that you can't afford new things, exactly. It's that every purchase requires a mental calculation, and "still works" always wins over "works well." You develop this specific relationship with broken things, a kind of stubborn loyalty to items that should have been retired years ago.

These seven items are the quiet markers of that particular economic reality, the things we keep using long past their expiration date because throwing them away feels like admitting defeat.

1. The washing machine that needs a special dance

Mine requires you to redistribute the load three times during the spin cycle, and you have to prop the lid with a wooden spoon or it won't start. It's been like this for two years.

A new washer costs $400-800. The wooden spoon was free. That's the math that keeps lower-middle-class households running—not "How much would a new one cost?" but "How much longer can I make this work?" Every family has their machine's specific quirks memorized. Slam the lid twice. Jiggle the dial to the left. Never wash more than four towels at once.

2. Tupperware without matching lids

Open any lower-middle-class kitchen cabinet and witness the avalanche of mismatched plastic containers. Lids that fit nothing. Bottoms with no tops. That one lid that somehow works on three different containers if you press hard enough.

Buying a matching set of food storage containers for $30 seems absurd when you have a cabinet full of cottage cheese containers and takeout boxes that "work fine." So you spend five minutes every morning searching for a lid that sort of fits, wrapping the whole thing in a plastic bag when it doesn't quite seal. It's not efficient, but it's free.

3. The couch with the permanent dip

You know exactly where not to sit. There's that one spot where the springs gave up in 2018, now covered with a throw pillow that fools nobody. Maybe there's a blanket draped strategically over the arm where the cat shredded the fabric.

A new couch costs $500 minimum. A throw blanket costs $12. Some creative pillow placement costs nothing. Everyone in the family automatically steers guests away from the danger zone. "Oh, you'll be more comfortable over here." We've turned furniture tetris into an art form.

4. Phone chargers held together with tape

The wire is exposed in three places. You have to position it just right or it won't charge. Electrical tape wraps around the weak spots like tiny bandages. It only works at certain angles, propped against a book.

New charging cables cost $15-25. Electrical tape costs $3 and fixes five different cables. You become an expert at finding that sweet spot where the connection holds. Everyone has their designated charging position that cannot be disturbed. Move that cable one inch and someone's alarm won't go off tomorrow.

5. Kitchen appliances with missing parts

The toaster only works on one side. The blender is missing the lid so you hold a plate over it. The can opener requires strength training levels of force. The microwave door needs to be slammed shut or it won't start.

Each appliance would cost $20-50 to replace. But when you're lower-middle-class, "broken" is relative. If the toaster still toasts (even if you have to flip the bread manually), if the blender still blends (even if you risk smoothie explosions), they stay. You adapt your cooking to their limitations rather than adapting your budget to new purchases.

6. Towels that are basically see-through

They've been washed so many times they're translucent. The edges are fraying into stringy tentacles. They don't really dry you so much as move the water around. But they're still technically towels.

A decent set of towels costs $40-60. These threadbare ones still technically function. So you use two at a time, ignore the scratchy texture, and pretend not to notice when guests politely decline your offer of a shower. The "good" towels (which are really just less destroyed) are saved for when people visit.

7. The TV remote that requires surgical precision

Missing battery cover, held together with duct tape. Three buttons don't work so you navigate through complex menu sequences to change the volume. Sometimes you have to take the batteries out and roll them to make it work.

A universal remote costs $15. But you've already memorized the workaround—pressing Menu > Settings > Audio > Volume instead of the volume button. It's muscle memory now. Everyone in the house knows the sequence. Teaching visitors how to use your remote is a 10-minute orientation process.

Final thoughts

These broken, bandaged items aren't just about money—they're about a mindset that gets passed down through generations. It's the voice that says "we don't waste things that still work" and "you don't know what hard times look like."

There's actually something admirable about the creativity it takes to keep a broken washing machine running with a wooden spoon, or the patience to manually flip bread in a half-dead toaster. It's resourcefulness born from necessity.

But there's also exhaustion in it. The mental load of remembering which outlet actually works, which burner on the stove runs hot, which door needs to be lifted while closing. Your house becomes a map of workarounds that only you understand.

The thing is, being lower-middle-class means you're always one broken appliance away from a financial crisis, so you nurse the dying ones along as long as possible. You become an expert at the economics of "making do"—calculating not just the cost of replacement, but the opportunity cost of every dollar spent.

Those duct-taped remotes and see-through towels aren't just items. They're evidence of a specific kind of resilience, the kind that knows exactly how much you can live without while still technically living with it.