Recently my husband informed me that we’d reached the credit limit on our Capital One card—no small accomplishment since they’ve been raising our limit every time we got anywhere near it for the past year or so. Now, I really do understand financial concepts like not spending more than you earn, and living below your means, and debt equals bad, saving equals good. But I must confess, sometimes those sums of money that appear in our bank account and then disappear seem a little abstract, you know? They’re just numbers on my computer screen, and they basically shift from column to column. It’s all rather boring. But I think my husband might like it if I found a way to make it more real and thus actually start to care about which column the numbers are in.
And so, I have decided to think of our Capital One debt not as a large sum of money, but rather as a massive, rather gelatinous person. Sort of a mix between Jaba the Hut and Harry Potter’s Uncle Vernon. I’ve named him Bubba. See, we all know that women are relational. I figure, if I imagine the debt as some poor individual desperately in need of someone who cares enough about him to come over to the house he’s stuck in and do a Sweatin’ to the Oldies tape with him, then I might actually get the results my husband desires. Namely, a skinnier, healthier Bubba.
There’s another bonus to having my new friend, Bubba, in my life. See, I’ve been needing an accountability partner for my own exercise routine. I figure Bubba can help me out since I’m helping him out. The little platinum version of him can go with me to the Y, and while I’m pumping away on the elliptical, he can cheer me on. And when he and I are tempted to charge a mocha frap or a supreme gordita, we’ll be stronger together. It’s not good for Bubba, and it’s not good for me. Yes, Bubba and I are fat, but now that we’ve found each other, there’s hope. In this crazy, mixed-up, carb-laden world, Bubba and I reached out, joined our pudgy fingers and vowed, “No more!” Cue Inspirational music. “No more.”