Awhile ago, I became aware—mostly through my husband’s theatrical sighs when paying bills—that I had a credit card addiction. In order to make myself care about this nebulous problem, I decided to think of my credit card debt as a person--a massive tent-wearing, wobbly-type person. You know, the “before” picture. And so, Bubba was born.
Since I have Creative Personality Disorder, Bubba soon became an all-too-real imaginary friend. I imagined him waddling behind me at Target, huffing down my neck as I shopped on Amazon.com, and demanding extra whip cream for my frappucino at Starbucks.
Since my mission—which I never had the option of choosing to accept—was to trim Bubba down a bit, I figured the least the behemoth could do was help me shed a few pounds. You know, I don’t add $4.50 to his swollen waist and he, in return, does not add extra whip cream to mine. Makes sense, right? Somehow I entered into an accountability relationship with a figment of my imagination.
Shockingly, this did not work. I’m here to say that Bubba and I now hate each other, as evidenced by my suicidal scale and his rent-sized minimum payment. In the name of friendship, we’ve sabotaged each other. He offered to pay for my vanilla bean scones and I, like a weak-willed enabler, let him. Now both of us are huge.
Which brings me to a ridiculous question, is there therapy for people who have relationship issues with their imaginary friends? Or maybe there’s a prescription that takes care of things like this.
I’ve heard of this radical freezer therapy where you put your “friend” in a plastic container, fill it with water, then stick him in the deep freeze. As much as I hate Bubba for letting me get even fatter than I started out, I still can’t justify such cruelty.
What am I to do, folks? Bubba and I are headed for a show-down. I can see it now. I lure him to the Cheesecake Factory, promising to only add a small salad to his straining balance. But just as I’ve duped him with the illusion of my restraint, I add a basket of calamari, a plate of Pad Thai, a couple of girly cocktails, and then four different kinds of cheesecake!! Die, Bubba, die! Bwa ha ha!
But! Oh, no! What’s this? Just before my credit line draws its last breath, Bubba manages to get one more parting shot in. The cheesecake! Who could have seen that coming? Now my behind is the size of Canada, AND I’m stuck with the colossal carcass of my credit line!
Okay, okay. Maybe I need to get out more. Take a pill for my hyperactive imagination. Get real friends. Go on a diet. Make a budget.
I think I’ll call my budget Romilla. Romilla the Red Witch! Romilla the Red is my nemesis! While I do my part to nourish an anorexic economy, Romilla foils my every move, zapping me with lightning whenever I reach the checkout. My husband is Romilla’s unknowing pawn. I must liberate him from her iron fist of cruelty and teach him the ways of gracious overspending.
Oh dear. I think I have a problem.
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