I often like to say (though like may not be the proper word for it) that I am dependently wealthy. On my own, however, I am poor.
But proud. (Ish.)
I mean, geez, I was stuck in London for 3 years because I was too proud to ask for help getting out. This time I wisely decided it was best to not be a schmuck and have tons of time unnecessarily et up while I proved (or didn’t) that I could do it on my own. I realized I like seeing my family from time to time, so, as you know, I didn’t hesitate to ask my father for a “loan” in order that I should get out while the gettin’ was good. (Though I did hesitate on the basis of timing. Ya gotta ask in the right way at the right time or you might not get or — if you do — it might be a more unpleasant getting.)
Frankly folks, I was mightily impressed with myself when that statuesque Newsnight producer I knew only minimally from the King Street Starbucks agreed to meet and give so that I could get to the plane. A big dilemma, followed by a walk to Westfield, a few messages via the Apple Store and I’m set. Man, that Andrew knows how to surf life’s currents, yes he do.
Of course, I didn’t feel so self-impressed when she didn’t show. “Why, oh why,” I asked myself, “has this person to whom I’ve not grown close forsaken me?”
I guess it’s true what they always say — you shouldn’t put all your somewhat-golden eggs in one basket.
It’s hard, though, to ask a second person for money that you’ve already borrowed, even if you haven’t gotten it yet. These are, I suppose, the dangers of being dependently wealthy.
As is the fact — which I’ve more than alluded to before — that if you get money from Daddy, he expects you to turn up. Yet now, after almost missing my plane and then not missing it, I may miss it again as it’s almost an hour before my — it bears repeating — international flight.
So, even if the letting out guy lets me back in, I may be, how you say, up shit’s jetway without an unoccupied restroom.