Over the last year or so, I’ve generally avoided the hysteria surrounding our country’s “credit crunch.” Sure, the crisis has crossed paths with my clients in my line of work, but I’ve been far enough removed from the details to have been personally impacted. I’m close with very, very few people whose jobs have been affected (other than perhaps made more busier), and can’t think of anyone I know who has faced trouble with maintaining ownership of their home. Yes, some of my investments have gone south, but since most of them sit in retirement funds I can’t touch for another 40 years, I maintain a positive long-term outlook and avoid fretting over day-to-day volatility. (Wow, what a douchey sentence.)
It is this general naivety that I entered the financial aid process in preparation for school this fall. I delayed for weeks filling out my loan applications, and when I finally did, spent more time shopping around different banks for the best interest rates. Loans were approved, appealed, declined, withdrawn, and reinstated – in no particular order.
Oblivious to anything but the computer screen in front of me, I had no idea that my harried search for capital had flooded the financial aid office with paperwork. These folks had gone through a rough summer – among other things, a major loan program had been canceled, sending the status of our international students into complete uncertainty. And here I was, a domestic student with simple needs who should have been an open and shut case. Instead, I was confusing the financial aid office to the point the the Director herself got on the phone with me in frustration. We eventually resolved the confusion and assumed the work was done.
Today, however, during a brief exchange with the Director to confirm all was well, I realized that all was, in fact, not well. Feeling incredibly guilty at this point, I replied back with the necessary information to resolve the issue, and tried to make nice by closing my note with an offer to buy her a drink or an ice cream cone upon my arrival in Chicago.
The gravity of our nation’s credit crisis finally hit me with her response:
“Amish, if I survive until then, I will take ice cream. If I start drinking, I won’t stop.”
Me Elsewhere