As news broke of the horrendous and terrifying Equifax hack, which has exposed the private information of more than 143 million people, I was struck by one persistent and nagging thought: Those hackers are in for a helluva surprise when they try to do anything with my crappy financial history.
Here’s my financial picture: I’m broke, getting broker, going to be broke for a long-ass time. I have no idea what my credit score is and I certainly have no interest in finding out. As long as it’s somewhere on par with my blood alcohol content level, I figure I’m in good shape. (And trust me, I work on increasing that every single day.) I’m pretty sure when those hackers see what the actual number is, they will scream and their faces will melt off, like at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark.
This is absolutely not where I saw myself at when I hit the big 4-0. I was supposed to be “successful.” You know, “successful,” that special word that means all your problems in life are magically fixed. You throw tasteful-yet-elegant dinner parties, drive a new car every three years, and your mother no longer asks you when you’re going to “do something with your hair.”
But I am the furthest thing from that kind of successful. I am barely grasping at “considers bankruptcy to be a step up.”
One of my last apartments was so crappy you couldn’t take a shower and run the dishwasher at the same time. If you tried to microwave something while watching TV, the air conditioner caught fire. There was a smell coming from the vents that was something like lamb kabobs and gorilla farts, and when I asked my maintenance man to find out what it was, his answer was, “It’s supposed to be like that.”
I have no one to blame but myself. I have invested more money in buying glitter nail polish than I have in my retirement. I make terrible decisions, the kind of epic MC Hammer spending all of his money on gold fountains and racehorses decisions. A few years ago, the internet got itself in a doozy of a headspin because baseball player Alex Rodriguez had commissioned a painting of himself as a centaur. I myself found it to be a wise financial investment. First of all, this dude has $300 million, of course he sees himself as a centaur. Honestly, what’s the big deal? If I could muster up even a lousy $300 in the bank I would commission a portrait of myself as a unicorn having sex with the Ghost of Christmas Past.
I recently saw a financial investment commercial that scolded me about my crappy life choices. An old man who looked like an elf that secretly steals candy from children at Halloween so he could resell it on eBay lectured people on the dangers of not having your financial act together. “A low credit score could affect your ability to get a loan and jeopardize your future employment,” he explained.
First of all, no one in their right mind should ever loan me money. Seriously. If I ever ask you, just run. Get a restraining order, something. It won’t end pretty.
In my defense though, that American Express bill is really easy to run up if you’re not careful. I mean, you make a few unplanned trips to Target and hit up the shoe aisle and pretty soon your debt is outpacing the GNP of Bolivia. Those credit card people are so nice and sweet on the phone when you’re asking them to extend your credit so you can purchase the complete box set of The Best of Conway Twitty, until it all goes downhill.
By the way, do not ever mess with the good people at Texas Tollways collection agency. They have pictures of you in your car and they probably know about all those times you were driving around in your bathrobe singing “Spice Up Your Life” at the top of your lungs while simultaneously two-fisting drumsticks from Popeyes chicken and steering with your knees.
My financial nest egg consists solely of a collection of unused Papa John’s bucks. They are basically my legacy. I envision my heirs fighting over them long after I am dead and gone. Like characters in an elaborate Southern melodrama:
Ashley: I will never give you MeeMaw Rose’s reward points, Augusta. You only married Vernon to get your dirty hands on them. I’ll take them to my grave, just as she tried to before we pried them out of her hands on her deathbed.
Augusta: You’ll regret this, Ashley. MeeMaw Rose wanted me to have them so I can earn double rewards. They’ll be mine or I’ll see you in your grave.
When it comes to my finances, Jesus take the wheel already, please. I’m just going to sit in the backseat, complain about how he’s driving too slow, tell him to change lanes and then to get back in the other lane and then ask him, “Why are we taking the highway? We should be taking Douglas Street. Douglas has much less traffic this time of the day. We’re going to hit too many lights. Oh no, this person is driving too slow. Go around them. Go around them! Turn on 79th Street; I know a shortcut.”
It’s the way I do things.
Rebecca Rose invests in feelings, not stocks. Contact her at rrose@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Sep 21-28, 2017.
