I've sunk to a new low. No, I haven't done anything lately that's degrading. In fact, I've been tallying the slightly mature things I've done lately.
I recently responded Not Attending"" to a porn star-
themed party I was invited to on Facebook. When a strange, drunk girl asked me to pee in the same stall with her at Wando's and hold her hand, I declined. And when this same girl proceeded to stick those dirty hands into my nacho dip and lick the cheesy goodness off each of her pudgy fingers, I told her to act more ladylike in public, after I snapped her picture.
Despite my maturity, like I said, I've fallen in a deep pit - and that pit, my friends, is called debt.
I was recently contemplating buying a pair of lime-green patent leather stilettos that, I felt, were completely necessary for my day-to-day wardrobe. But I felt I had maybe indulged too much lately - shoes, male escorts and nacho platters quickly add up. I knew I had to check my bank account balance and make sure I would have the funds to support my eating habit.
So I logged on to my Internet banking site, and there it was in writing: I was worth almost nothing.
I was officially broke. I had more pounds on my body than I had dollars in my bank account. It meant that for each of my years, I had saved fewer than 48 cents. I can count the people I have dated, the number of times the fire alarm in my high rise has gone off and the number of times I call my mom a week to discuss ""American Idol"" - and all these numbers surpass the amount of dollar bills in my bank account.
During times of self-doubt, I turn to my local mall for comfort, love and a cheap, sequined tank top to wear to the bars. But this time, the Macy's sale rack, the gay makeup artist at the MAC counter and the Auntie Anne's pretzel stand weren't able to comfort me. I had no funds to pay for their friendship.
For two weeks, I lived on ten dollars, eight cans of soup and zero nights out. Between my lack of social and retail interaction, I wasn't able to spend a dime.
I reorganized desk drawers. I contemplated selling my eggs after I saw a classified ad. I turned off lights, I chewed gum, I watched TV (until the cable bill came and went unpaid). I applied for food stamps. I went hiking. I found an old tube of Elmer's glue, coated my hands in it, let it dry and tried to pick the glue off in large sheets. I played Candy Land with myself. I made a collage featuring my doggies, baby pictures and cupcakes.
I was bored. I was bored with being bored. And I was bored with being poor. It was time do something - it was time to sell all of my ugly clothes.
Not only did the actual process of going through my two closets and two dressers take up a large amount of my very free time - but it was also free. I had hours to contemplate how parting with a T-shirt I bought in the seventh grade, that now had somewhat visible pit stains, would affect the rest of my life. At the end of three days, I had three garbage bags full of clothes and made close to 30 dollars after selling them to a resale shop.
Thirty dollars. That's one dollar for each freckle on any given one-by-one inch patch of skin on my arm. That's three dollars for each of my fingers. And that's a dollar for each beer I plan to drink on Mifflin before I even leave my house.
So maybe 30 dollars isn't that much; it certainly didn't make me feel rich, but at least I felt worth something - even if it amounted to less than the number of times I wish I had bought those neon-green shoes.
If you wanna donate some dolla-dolla bills y'all, e-mail aaspencer@wisc.edu.
