"Yes, Those Wings Are Mine..."

Strange, isn't it, how I read a factoid claiming 10 million Americans are the victims of identity theft about 24 hours before someone in Romania tried to charge a domain name to my bank account.

That's right. I got me some credit card fraud for Christmas, y'all.

I spoke to two representatives from GoDaddy.com who claimed they'd never heard of a Samantha Simpson from NC, and I spoke to another one who insisted I'd purchased a domain name and needed to quit my whining and get on with the orientation already.

So, I took my act to Wachovia and told Guy Behind the Desk to make sure my bank account hasn't been completely ravaged. He pulled up my account on his computer and started pressing buttons.

"Who'd want to steal a grad student's identity?" I chuckled nervously.

GBD works at the bank. He knows laughing takes time, and time is money. He pressed more buttons.

Now, let's be honest. Debit cards throw the world right open, don't they? Even palm readers take credit cards these days, so I never have to risk ATM fees again. But maybe I should. All those electronic purchases leave a paper trail. And that paper trail can reveal a great deal about how I'm living. I thought I lived loud and proud--until GBD started reading my purchases aloud:

$3 at Harris Teeter. Check.
$30 at Harris Teeter. Right.
$30 at Target. Uh-huh.
$25 at Target. Sure.

"I guess you know where I spend most of my time. Ha ha."

That GBD sure does stay on task.

$10 at Cookout. Now, Wachovia knows I eat like a pig.
$45 at Amazon.com. And I'm irresponsible.
$6.25 at Carmike Cinemas. And lazy
$80 to Providian. Not to mention I'm in debt.
$15 at Hooters. Shit.

GBD glanced up at me for a moment, and I managed an uneasy grin. Shit, shit, shit. Yes, black people can blush, and I know my face turned beet-red. I resisted the urge to explain myself, to let GBD know I'm not that kind of girl, that my friend and I were having a lark. If I'd done that, I'd have to explain said lark--a photo-documentary of our search for a California sea lion in downtown Greensboro--and that would only make me seem like more of a freak.

And I had cash that night. Why didn't I use cash? Sure, some stranger in Romania could be cleaning out all my funds and leaving me destitute and desperate for the New Year--but now Wachovia thinks I eat French fries and look at titties all day.

There you have it. Credit card marauders ruined my life. I don't, in fact, live loud and proud. These days, I only use cash.