I’m talking about modern credit card design.

Gone are the days of the lackluster presentation of the credit card. Plain old royal blue? Yick! A distorted and altogether unflattering mugshot of yourself? No thank you. Your whole card covered in Beagle puppies? Yes. One thousand times yes.

These big bank marketing executives heard our cries for self-expression, allowing us to take much-deserved pride in pulling out that prized piece of plastic at every given inopportune opportunity. “No, guys (party of 15). I got this one (bill, $437, only has $100 in checking).” Party of 15 stops dead in their tracks to see this LED credit card, flashing lights and doing kickflips as it lands perfectly onto the bill.

SPECIAL DELIVERY

It virtually happened overnight, as it does when you get things in the mail via USPS. As far as I was concerned, it was just another midday, opening my mail, like every other normal person on this planet takes their time to do. Was I to know the ramifications of my next inbound surprise? The effect it would have on my small talk encounters for the next decade? How could I know???

I was ready to sliver another piece of mail down the paper shredder when my fingernails clicked over raised numerals on a hardened rectangle. With those same nails I burst through the seams of the envelope and what emerged was my brand new mf credit card from mf US Bank. I immediately called up Tina at the bank.

“Tina, you didn’t!”

Tina and I were, obviously, fuckin’ tight, as I was with all of the bank tellers at my local branch inside our neighborhood Publix grocery store. They knew I played soccer, they knew what I was doing this weekend, what restaurant I worked at, who my boyfriend was, what my greater goals were, how much money I really didn’t have. In those short few minutes a few times a week, as I was depositing money or talking them down from overdraft charges, we shared raw human connection. Could I go as far as to say that they were my friends? They were more than that. They were my bank teller friends.

So it would only make sense that when it was time for a youth like myself to renew my cc, my bffs up at the bank knew my free-spending spirit would be game for a fresh design that expressed said spirit.

NEW CARD, NEW ME

Life with my tie-dye credit card was different, like I had something awesome to say without having to say it. The way I spent my money was different too. I spent more on fun things, like glow in the dark anything, party sweaters, and flying standby. But more than what it did for my spending habits or self-expression, its effect on other people was both baffling and predictable. Anyone that caught a glimpse of this little plastic beauty had something to say about it.

“Wow, what a cool card, how did you get this???”

“Yo, that credit card is DOPE.”

“WHOA!”

Cashiers, people behind me in various fast-casual dining lines, pharmacists handing over Plan B, uninvited conversationalists, people young and old—my card’s reach was wide and vast, overcoming social barriers, language even. And I loved it. While everyone else was in the dark with their bland-ass, stupid idiot cards, anytime I paid for anything it was a straight-up mic drop.

Ten years later, with a more classically inspired iteration of this tie-dye cc, I am having the same goddamn conversation.

It’s like getting a big tree tattooed on your back when you’re 19 years old — thinking it’s gonna be a really cool thing for you. At first you’re excited to talk about it, even welcome the conversation around it. Then over time you start to realize that you don’t really have a meaning behind it and you don’t really know why you got it in the first place and it’s a conversation piece mostly because dudes notice it when they check you out. It’s now at the point where I’m actually thanking people for not saying anything about the tie-dye credit card, inadvertently starting a conversation about the tie-dye credit card, continuing the cycle of exchange surrounding the tie-dye credit card.

And just like that, what started as a very positive thing has turned into a regular, internal reality check that hurts to think about—fuck, I am so indebted to this tie-dye credit card.

I know that’s not what Tina the bank teller wanted. She was just doing her job.

I lose my keys, only to realize that I left them in the ignition with the car running.

breathing becomes a conscious act.

I forget that I’m still hitting the bong, resulting in a bong rip entirely too large for someone already that high.

I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, and I can’t remember what I was just doing.

I kiss my Uber driver on the mouth because we share a bag of Doritos. Because it’s the special moments that count.

I pretend like I didn’t hear when someone asks me a question.

it feels like my head is a really big balloon, and I’m just a tiny person inside of it yelling things at people.

When the guy informed you that I was his little sister, you reiterated your point. He should be so lucky to parade around town with his attractive little sister, receiving affirmative gestures from other men.

Is that how it works? Are we stuck in a time portal that’s put us back to the olden days, when young women were pawned off by their fathers and brothers? No. Today is September 5, 2015. But if I was judging by your appearance, you were probably somebody’s brother in those days. Which is to say that you’re old as fuck.

Too old, you would later explain, to be hitting on a woman of my age. You’d have to be at least 35 years younger to actually be hitting on a woman of my age. It was a good thing you cleared that up too, because we were becoming confused about what it is you were doing.

Commenting on my appearance, never addressing me directly, telling my brother that you think and that he should acknowledge that I’m physically attractive. Is this your version of a compliment?

Maybe I should be better at accepting compliments. Maybe if you were actually 35 years younger and maybe if I found you attractive, maybe I would have reacted differently to this “compliment.” Maybe I’m not clear on what is a compliment and what is just some stranger’s opinion on how I look.

Maybe I didn’t ask you for your opinion. I just asked you to copy my keys.