At the sole of my consumer manipulation

I don't know if this is as insidious as I'm thinking, but I think I'm thinking right.

I wouldn't put this complete distraction past retailers as utter boots manipulation. And I'm slowly giving in, putting the boots in my shopping cart and then, realizing my insanity, yanking them out and chastising myself by repeating the ridiculous price point over and over again.

The boots. The BOOTS! They're everywhere. And I want them. But the ones I want are upwards of $200 in nearly every shop and website I've been to. 

You probably know what ones I'm talking about already. You want them, too. They're real leather brown calf-high riding boots. (Because I have athletic calves - they're of the wide-calf variety. So special attention that they'll actually zip up must be paid - and often paid, unfortunately, in dollars and extra leather cents.)

And look at you, my reader friend, you are already thinking of the boots you have or the ones you want. Or, if you're looking out the window, you're beginning to feel something is missing in the outfit you're wearing as the 15 women on the street walking by are wearing brown in various states of brown bootness, sporting buckles and bows and ties and clamps of varying intensity based on their style preference. Or, in most cases, they're wearing whatever is available in the store that won't set you back an arm and a leg -- that would, figuratively if literally taken, make the boots useless. Apparently, after looking at that last sentence, I've been thinking about this too much.

I'm strong in my no-boots policy. And in my no-trench coat policy. I been pining for a specific trench coat that's just not in my budget right now, but the self-convincing isn't working so well these days as I confuse L.L. Bean by being the most indecisive customer ever, going through almost all the steps of online purchasing, but stopping just short of the submit order button.

Why do I care so much about this stuff? About quality clothing and getting the particular brand I want?

I have partially been brainwashed by companies and my environment. I live in New York City where everyone dresses like they have Edith Head and Louis Vuitton making out in their micro-closet in Fort Greene. It's easy to feel daunted here by the lushness of the fashion.

But I realize my boots and trench coat are staples. They're not the flirty blouse of the moment. These would seriously have some staying power in my wardrobe. Or so I think. I sometimes buy so-called staple items and often get sick of them after a few years. But I never pay as much as I would pay for these items and would likely keep them around and wear them just because I invested in them. 

Right now, I have a trench coat that I bought for $3 at a thrift store in Pennsylvania. It's a badge of honor to wear such thrift store finds, but it's thin and I want something that I can wear into the colder months ahead. I also want boots that really fit and I don't have to think about when I'm getting dressed. Just kind of like, "OK, brown boots. That'll be great with jeans." 

These days I hate thinking about clothes and putting in the time to dress like a put-together human being. I want to just be put-together.

The boots are torturing me with promises of brown neutrality, and the trench coat with the illusive wool lining wrapping me up in promises of warm mornings and crisp fall air.

_______________

Since writing the above, I have remembered that I purchased a pair of black boots that will be both neutral and amazing. And I've lost some leg since I purchased them, so they don't pinch as much when I'm zipping them up. As for the trench coat, I'm still, daily, visiting the site and checking out the coat. I need more hobbies.

Dear friends and family who live far away....

I miss you all in an aching kind of way today.

I realize that I have hurt some of you the last time I saw you and I want to apologize for that. I imagine the distance and quiet has made things sorer. I want to say, more than ever, that I'm often shuffling through the madness of life in some state of loss and hurt and I say things because I am frustrated by that -- that I don't have the answers I think everyone expects of me. I want, more than anything, for the air to be clear and for the hurts to be forgiven. I understand if you feel the same way.

I want you to know that I still love you all, that I always will. I also want you all to know that I may be different from the person you once knew (depending on when we met) and that you may not accept everything about me.  That's OK. Really. That's OK. But please don't intentionally try to hurt me or talk politics with me if you know we disagree.  This creates division and makes it hard when we do finally see each other. If you'd like to get to know me better, keep reading (this blog and others).

If we didn't live far apart, I would have dinner and hot cider at your house tonight. Or you, of course, would be welcome at mine. I would tell you over meatloaf and mashed potatoes that I have finally reached a place of calm about my choice of life, from the man I love to the place I worship -- and that it may not be what you thought it would be, but that it's finally where I'm finding a fit. Aren't you happy for me? I hope you are. Because it is what I wish for you. Really. 

I want you to be happy and if I have somehow made you think I am judging you, I am sorry. I may have judged you (it's something I'm working on, trying to be kinder). But please don't read between the lines of my Facebook posts. There's likely nothing there. I love you as you are and I hope the best things in life for you. Let's be close even as the distance stretches between us. 

My phone call voice is awkward and Skype gives me an extra chin. I am not pretty trying to bridge these distances. My efforts are sadly few. But I'm trying today to move beyond them and the hurts I know I have inflicted. I welcome your presence wherever you are. And I miss you. I really do. I grew up with you, went to college with you, sang with you, drank with you, laughed with you, traveled with you, ate with you, share blood and often tears with you. Don't leave me now when I'm finally becoming the person I think I'm supposed to be. And if I'm not doing this right -- and especially if I am -- I'm going to need every one of you to help me continue to find my way. 

It isn't easy being so far away from you, beloved friends and family everywhere. Waves of homesickness and loneliness wash over me in equal measure with accomplishment and joy at the life I've wrought here. But there are no easy fixes. Only voicemails and phone tag and work. 

I'm calling. Will you call, too? I'll pick up if my phone isn't on vibrate. I promise. Let's not just "Skype sometime" -- let's make a date. Don't worry, this way you don't have to buy drinks for the gal with the extra chin.

The abused borrower

My loan company is aggressive. They're particularly so about not giving access to the Income-Based Repayment Plan. I don't know about yours, but mine is extremely adamant about making documents as hard to find as possible, and the process as difficult as picking a lock with a dead fish. The issue is the IBR allots the amount you pay based on your income - and not on the loan company's crazy schedule of "projected income." Yeah, I should be making more. Rub. It. In. 

I hesitate to give the name of my loan company because I'm afraid they will one day read this and make an even bigger effort to screw with my mind, writing notes in the margins of my "file" about how chatty I am online.

My fears are founded though. I'm not just some paranoid borrower, sitting in a corner with badly non-brushed hair eating leaves. This is serious.

I received a letter the other day that dashed hopes of holiday gifts, any travel that extended beyond the subway and made the prospect of the occasional ice cream cone an expense to be seriously considered. That's how big a number I was quoted to give them. This is a very different number from what I was quoted when I filed my IBR months ago.

These mailings always result with me showing my teeth on the phone to some poor customer service representative. The number changes on my bill and I go on auto-debiting until they quote me another incredibly crazy number a couple of months later.

This is what I would like to say:

"Folks at the LoanCompanyThatShallNotBeNamed, I'm not getting a raise every month so you can fix the amount. And by the way, I needed the loan to go to school, so it's likely that I'm sitting on a "Breaking Bad" stash of cash.

So stop giving me convulsions every time I get an envelope from you. Set the reasonable price that the government says I am OK to pay according to my income and I will pay it. For real. I'm not trying to dodge what I owe. I really do not want to dodge these payments because I know I can't escape them through bankruptcy, running from the country, changing jobs, etc. We are stuck together and I am willing to pay. I got a wonderful education at two amazing universities and I thank God that you were there when I needed you, OhMoneythatisnotMine from LoanCompanyThatShallNotBeNamed. Please lengthen my life with fewer, accurate mailings. It'll be equally beneficial. I promise."

But instead I say things like:

1. Tell me what I owe in the next three months, payment by payment.

2. Why is this number changing so often? 

3. Why is my account still on standard billing and not auto-debit like I asked for three convulsions ago?

4.  May I speak with a manager?

5.  Why don't the IBR people have a phone to answer customer service questions? Isn't that a little stupid? They're the ones EVERYONE wants to talk to.

6.  I hope you got a degree and it's all paid off. Do you get a discount because you work at LoanCompanyThatShallNotBeNamed? No? I thought so. I'm sorry for being such an awful lady.

OK, so I made the last one up. But I'm torn between getting my information through passive aggressive abuse and being an OK human being. Why does it have to be this way?

Loans are an important part of where I am today and I feel good when I can pay my loans every month. Like, I'm doing this the way it should be! I got a job! I can pay it back! Gosh this sucks! But it's an OK kind of 'this sucks'! Sure, take my money!

But loans continue to be a headache for me three years out of school when many other things - such as clogging up my bookshelves with textbooks, dreaming of final term papers erasing, and naming my staplers - has abated. I ask myself every year how this could be easier, so I make copies and file paperwork and write neatly. And the same mess with half-answered questions and sweat-beading stress reminiscent of remembering the differences between British female romantic poets for Brit Lit class always results. 

I'm a FREAKING ADULT NOW. I CAN HANDLE THIS with pens and papers and calm and filing and chamomile tea and ... WHAT THE HELL? YOU LOST MY PAPERWORK AND YOU WANT ME TO SEND THIS 14-page rundown of my income AGAIN?

I hate you Sallie Mae.