When it comes to monetary issues, I have a history of, shall we say, negligence. However, as PNC is courteous enough to deliver my account summary directly into the hands of my finance-savvy father, I was unable to ignore my past month’s frightful level of spending. My father, a normally calm and serious individual, sent me an email that looked something like this: Laura, YOUSSPENT800DOLLARS-INONEMONTHMONEYDOESNTGROWONTREESDOESTHEWORDBUDGETMEANANYTHINGTOYOU?  My normally docile father was using the caps lock button – I knew I messed up.

When I arrived at the University of Pennsylvania, I felt financially well-prepared. With approximately two thousand dollars in my debit account, I felt like I was loaded (give me a break rich kids, I’ve always been poor). Somehow, I was under the illusion that I wouldn’t be spending much of my own money. After all, I now had my Penn Card, which was almost as good as daddy’s credit card when it came to purchasing food around campus. Hell, there was even a Starbucks that took dining dollars. With my coffee addiction well financed, I figured two thousand dollars would get me through my first year at college. Man, was I naive.

So how exactly did I find myself eight hundred dollars short?  While I do have a soft spot for shoes, I am not a shopaholic by any means. I am quite capable of walking by American Apparel without giving it a second glance, and I’ve conquered the lure of the sale racks at Urban Outfitters. However, when it comes to the necessities and little comforts of life, I am certainly a sucker. Microwaveable macaroni and cheese, school supplies, diet coke, Glamour magazines, and false eye-lashes: all these things add up. And, according to my credit bill, they can add up to the price of a shitty car (shitty, but a car all the same).  I could blame it on the dining hall’s lack of edible food or the fact that the Chinese pretzel lady is always so friendly; either way, an enormous amount of my money has gone towards chow. The delicious smells drifting out of Auntie Anne’s suck me in, and really, who can resist the crispy rice squares at Starbucks? While I know I shouldn’t spend two hundred dollars on leather boots from Nine West, it is a bit more challenging to stop myself from handing over six dollars to purchase a sandwich. While I am no mathematician, I have been able to deduce that $6 + $6 + $6 + $6 + $6… = angry, caps lock emails from your father. I must admit, even calculus looks friendlier.

So, in the name of family peace, I decided to seek out solutions to my little “problem” of fiscal folly. One friend recommended placing my debit card in a bag of water and freezing it (I argue that I could be shoe-hungry enough to melt it down). Another said stop being such a fat ass (we are no longer friends). Most people suggested I figure out some sort of budget for myself (what are they, crazy?). Finally, someone mentioned, “why don’t you just get a job?” Eureka! Why didn’t I think of that? (I’m obviously also asking myself how I got into Penn). I decided to call my dad and inform him of my wonderful problem solving skills. “Guess what, Dad, I’m getting a job!” “Great.” His astounding level of enthusiasm convinced me to begin my search while I still had any motivation left. Philadelphia Weekly was my first stop. As I scanned the classifieds intensely, I was slightly shocked to find that stripping or becoming a “female escort” were my best options. Not ready to trade in my books for a pole or thigh high boots, I went out on a limb and considered I was possibly looking in the wrong place.

As I swapped my copy of Philadelphia Weekly for the Daily Pennsylvanian, I tried my best to focus. Driver? Delivery? Retail? Hmmm…retail…shoes…I began to feel my stomach grumble and my attention wander. Maybe a quick perusal around Zappos.com will help refresh my focus. A trip to Quiznos wouldn’t hurt either. An hour and a half later, I am blissfully munching away on a sandwich and excitedly awaiting the arrival of my new Converses. The job thing can wait for another day; I’m sure no one’s hurrying to be a stripper.

When it comes to fiscal matters, maybe I will always have my head buried in the sand. At least the predictability of my situation is comforting; I am sure to receive another email in caps lock any day now. As well as a pair of fabulous, new shoes.