I always hate the 10th of every month.
No, it’s not when I start my man-period. It’s not this month’s full moon… don’t worry, I won’t be turning into a werewolf anytime soon (unless, of course, you count the fact that I haven’t shaved in a week, and I am getting a little grizzly.) And (thankfully) it’s not the anniversary of my latest break-up that I meticulously tally on my secret calendar, because for that to happen, you actually have to be dating someone for longer than three days. (Yes, my longest relationship to date is only three days. Before you judge, just remember that I’m gay… In the gay world, three days is practically three months.)
The 10th of every month is a traumatizing day for me because it's the one day a month when my Visa bill arrives in my mail box.
Scary thought, I know. Every month I get that same feeling of dread. I think to myself: Okay. Breathe. Don’t panic. It can’t be that bad. I mean, it’s a harmless piece of paper. How scary can a few numbers be?
Fucking terrifying. I try to imagine how much I spent in the last month. This month’s bill will be $200… okay, maybe $300… or $350 max.
I close my eyes and start adding up my recent purchases. There was that fabulous new Robert Graham shirt that I ordered for my friend’s birthday from BlueFly, but didn’t arrive until three days later (which, come to think of it, is still hanging in my closet. Mental note: need to find a special occasion to wear it!!); there was lunch with George at Gardunos, and dinner with Brit at Texas Roadhouse. Then, there was that gorgeous new brown and blue rug I bought from Pottery Barn that will look amazing in my living room once I clean it… which was more than $150 come to think of it.
But the Robert Graham shirt was 30 percent off—so that is actually saving money. Right?
As I clutch the envelope in my hands each month, just before opening it, the same thought always crosses my mind: Somehow, someway I’ll win the lottery and pay the bill off all in one payment. Magically, my bank account will overflow and 100 dollar bills will begin growing from the tree outside my apartment. (A guy can dream, right?)
I thumb the envelope to feel its width. Shit. This statement is definitely multiple pages. Ouch. Not going to be fun reviewing this one…
Then, the severe depression sets in. I could delay opening this small piece of mail and pretend that I never received it. I'll pretend the mailman delivered it to the wrong address. That happens all the time, no?
Come to think of it, I don’t need to know what my balance is… I could just send off the minimum $25 and worry about it next month… wait, I did that last month, didn’t I? What’s another month of carefree, blissful ignorance?
My mom always tells me that I have champagne taste but only a beer budget. Thanks to my best friend, Visa, I have champagne taste and a $2,000 spending limit. (Or, $1000… since I'm not sure what my outstanding balance is at the moment and there is no fucking way I have the courage to take a look...)
Now that that trauma is over, it’s definitely time for some serious retail therapy.
Mall, anyone?
-Brandon
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