I guess they just wanted to let me know that my payment is due after coming out of yet ANOTHER deferment or I.O.U. or layaway or whatever the hell.
If I had one wish in the world, I would wish to be given a boatload of untaxable, no-strings-attached money. And the first thing I would do with that money is pay off my student loans.
And here is the sad part: my mother took out a whole bunch of Parent Plus Loans for my million dollar education, so what I owe really isn't that much compared to my friends. But what is a dollar owed in the mind of a homeless man who has nothing? Exactly.
If I could give my student loans a name, I would name them Trudy. In my mind, Trudy is this girl that wears clothes in weird patterns that did me a real solid back when I was 18: she loaned me thousands of dollars to get an education, little to no questions asked. She was content with my promise to pay her back.
Now that I am out of school, I run into Trudy about every three months, and man, do those three months fly by.
"Holly Clay, is that you?" she yells whenever she sees me. She knows it's me.
"Hey Trudy girl!" I always say, primarily because there is no use in running. She knows my phone number and where I live. Plus, she is actually pretty nice. She is just annoying and a constant reminder of my failures.
"So what's new?" Trudy asks genuinely.
"I don't have your money, I swear! And I know I have been saying I would pay you back for ten years, but I swear to God, I don't have it!" I scream.
And Trudy just smiles her understanding smile. "It's all good Holls. I get it, life happens. I'm going to give you three months to get your life together. Just fax me a letter that says you are broke, and we can talk in the spring."
Thankful, I cry on her shoulders for about five minutes before she hugs me goodbye, eager to make her Brazilian wax appointment.
This dance with Trudy has become maddening and exhausting. And sometimes, late at night while I brainstorm how to make a dollar out of fifteen cents, I fantasize about moving and changing my name without letting Trudy know. However, Trudy told me once when I jokingly told her this plan that if I ever tried to do something like that she would call her husband, Mr. TransUnion, and ruin. my. life. I wouldn't have the credit to move into a tent city, forget my dreams of home ownership!
"One of the three little pigs wouldn't even build you a house," she whispered in my ear through clenched teeth.
I believe her.
Tomorrow I am going to be humble, sit down, and give Trudy a ring ding. I will do some of the moves I learned from my Yoga for Senior Citizens class to emotionally prepare. But really, what is the best way to emotionally prepare for having to negotiate time to pay back an outrageous amount of money? Exactly.
If I had one wish in the world, I would wish to be given a boatload of untaxable, no-strings-attached money. And the first thing I would do with that money is pay off my student loans.
And here is the sad part: my mother took out a whole bunch of Parent Plus Loans for my million dollar education, so what I owe really isn't that much compared to my friends. But what is a dollar owed in the mind of a homeless man who has nothing? Exactly.
If I could give my student loans a name, I would name them Trudy. In my mind, Trudy is this girl that wears clothes in weird patterns that did me a real solid back when I was 18: she loaned me thousands of dollars to get an education, little to no questions asked. She was content with my promise to pay her back.
Now that I am out of school, I run into Trudy about every three months, and man, do those three months fly by.
"Holly Clay, is that you?" she yells whenever she sees me. She knows it's me.
"Hey Trudy girl!" I always say, primarily because there is no use in running. She knows my phone number and where I live. Plus, she is actually pretty nice. She is just annoying and a constant reminder of my failures.
"So what's new?" Trudy asks genuinely.
"I don't have your money, I swear! And I know I have been saying I would pay you back for ten years, but I swear to God, I don't have it!" I scream.
And Trudy just smiles her understanding smile. "It's all good Holls. I get it, life happens. I'm going to give you three months to get your life together. Just fax me a letter that says you are broke, and we can talk in the spring."
Thankful, I cry on her shoulders for about five minutes before she hugs me goodbye, eager to make her Brazilian wax appointment.
This dance with Trudy has become maddening and exhausting. And sometimes, late at night while I brainstorm how to make a dollar out of fifteen cents, I fantasize about moving and changing my name without letting Trudy know. However, Trudy told me once when I jokingly told her this plan that if I ever tried to do something like that she would call her husband, Mr. TransUnion, and ruin. my. life. I wouldn't have the credit to move into a tent city, forget my dreams of home ownership!
"One of the three little pigs wouldn't even build you a house," she whispered in my ear through clenched teeth.
I believe her.
Tomorrow I am going to be humble, sit down, and give Trudy a ring ding. I will do some of the moves I learned from my Yoga for Senior Citizens class to emotionally prepare. But really, what is the best way to emotionally prepare for having to negotiate time to pay back an outrageous amount of money? Exactly.
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