My Coronavirus Coping Mechanism Is Eating
I’m finding as much joy in this chaos as I can
In spite of it being for my benefit, my bank’s fraud alert irritates the hell out of me. I find it especially judgmental. I know judgment well: I was made to regularly confess my sins to a priest. Not behind some wall like on TV either. Face to face with the man who knows you weren’t masturbating to Janet Jackson, but The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air.
My bank’s fraud alert lets me know when I haven’t been to Houston in a while because it assumes the purchase I made couldn’t have been me. I must have been in Los Angeles or New York or Washington, D.C. Then again, in New York, my Apple Pay was slapped back to Earth when I tried to buy denim at a price point my fraud alert felt I couldn’t afford. I forgot his name at Acne Studios, but thank you for not immediately being racist or something. As for my bank, damn, can someone’s hard work be paying off? Can someone treat themselves now and then?
More recently, my bank has not turned my card off for fear of fraud, but still expressed concern of potential fraud over my recurring purchases at Levain Bakery. If my mama isn’t judging me about all these cookies that I have been ordering, I won’t allow my bank to.
