Home and Deranged
Giving up on growing up: How I spent my tax refund
I ditched my piggy bank in favor of a legitimate savings account
I'm almost looking forward to nights of bypassing happy hour for laundry, andthat is truly horrifying
Yeah... this isn't going to work out
I barely recognize myself these days. It’s not a new hairstyle, a bad tan or a new brand of makeup. It’s a propulsion toward (slight) maturity that’s too disturbing to celebrate.
Two weekends ago I got rowdy enough at a friend-of-a-friend’s boyfriend’s crawfish boil that I had to go through strangers’ mail in the morning to locate an address where I could tell a cab to retrieve me. I then took that cab to Easter service.
I know that might not sound like the behavior of a mature adult, but if you knew me in college, we can call it progress.
Then on Wednesday, despite my most ardent desires, I did not spend my tax refund on shoes. I didn’t spend it on happy hour, either, or even rent.
Instead, I put the entire refund into a low-interest savings account. And, for the first time, this newly opened account was not nicknamed “Spring Break, What What” or “Nautical Wedges.” It’s called simply, “Rainy Day.”
And, though it pained me, I set the account up to debit my checking account every month on payday before I so much as lay eyes the money I’m parting with in the name of fiscal responsibility.
And it gets weirder.
The same night, I broke it off with a guy I’d been seeing on and off since September because it just wasn’t going anywhere. (He’s good-looking and a ton of fun, but he lives in Louisiana and has his text messages set to auto-delete — neither are qualities I look for in something serious).
The old me — the me I knew — would have at least waited until Sunday (when he returns to the swamp) to take optimum advantage of the free meals at better-than-usual restaurants, but it just didn’t seem time effective.
I’m applying cost-benefit analysis to relationships now, apparently. Normal.
And when a still-in-college friend texted me in the middle of my workday to spill deets on a great (and very recent, as in just happened) hook-up, I swiftly responded: “It’s, like, two in the afternoon!” “Go to class!!” and, “Bless you,” in rapid succession.
Before you know it, I’ll be skipping happy hour to get some laundry in and read myself to sleep.
I'm almost looking forward to it, and that's truly horrifying.
