This past New Year’s I watched a marathon of get-out-of-debt shows. I added up what I pay in interest every month. It was shocking. How does any business manage to charge nearly 30 percent interest? Didn’t there used to be laws against usury?
But I think I get it. It’s supposed to be this way. I’m supposed to feel worried about paying my rent and my bills. That way I’ll feel anxious about keeping my job and be willing to work extra hours or take on more responsibilities or come in on the weekends because the company needs to make money and therefore I must work harder and be happy about it, cheerfully pay my bills and look forward to retiring on a pittance while the bigwigs pay sell their paid-off mansions and go live somewhere sunny.
Yes, indeed, Virginia, I have a purpose.
I guess I sound rather grumpy. Sorry. I live in a mass of confusion. I started my life as a young idealist. I had big dreams. Somehow they got boiled down to stinky socks and beef stew with mashed potatoes. Keeping my head above water while paddling against the tide of mediocrity that is reality t.v., Facebook, and forty-six hour weeks.
It’s probably my fault. I mean, I’d be the one that hiked up the mountain to see the guru only to end up jumping his bones, cleaning his cave, and washing his loin cloth. Because that would make me good. I’d be a good person then. And everyone would be happier with me because I’m doing what they wanted. Therefore I’d feel accepted and loved. And then I’d be happy.
Other people make it through life with iPhones stuck in their bikini’s on the beach, why do I have to be so persnickety? Just because I’m so pale I turn bright red in fifteen minutes so have to sit, long-sleeved in long pants, under a tree, isn’t anyone else’s fault is it?
