Marjorie's Forgeries

And This is Why I Will Never Be a Professional Mathematicationer

In a venturesome bid to grow up, I’ve spent the past year slowly rebuilding my credit (it’s currently in the “needs work” to “fair” range). I was checking the balances on my cards last night, when I noticed an unusual charge for $122, made in Las Vegas sometime in November. Understandably panicked, I went through all of my recent purchases, desperately trying to remember if I’d ordered anything from Nevada, but ultimately I just surrendered and accepted the fact that my account had been hacked. Sighing pathetically, I picked up the phone to call the “Lost or Stolen” 800 number, glancing back at the charge to confirm the amount, when I noticed the negative sign.

Yeah, turns out? It wasn’t a purchase. It was a payment. I was losing my shit over the recordation of the last time I paid off the card. Apparently, I lived so long as a financial train wreck that proof of timely bill management is enough to give me a coronary.

This whole Mature Adulthood thing is a lot stressier than I thought it would be. I need a final demand notice or something to magically appear and make me go, “Whew, okay, crisis averted. I’m still me.”