I had a fun meeting with my banker today. Incongruous, I know. I was pretty anxious about seeing him since we’d booked the date. The agenda was to look over my meager investments to make sure I was getting optimal returns. I thought that was an excuse for him to give me a lecture about all the spending I’ve been doing on my credit margin while still being out of the job market. Well I needn’t have worried at all. He’s been my banker for some 15 years, but I knew him 20 years ago in an altogether different capacity, when we were both working at a cool little gay bar, him a waiter and me as a barmaid. He was gay and proud then—as he still is now—and was going through my LUG faze (figure it out for yourself). Apparently the first time he saw me I was wearing a turtleneck catsuit and doing my thing on the dancefloor. When he said that to me I was stunned that he’d remember that, especially since I had completely forgotten about that. The very idea that I once had the guts to wear a catsuit is hard to fathom, but then again, I WAS just only 21 and fearless back then.
We spent the better part of our meeting talking about things like our mutual love of perfume; comparing our favourite scents from Jo Malone’s line, and all about his latest restylane and bottox treatments. Incidentally we looked over my investments and he offered to put in a request for a credit card for me, which I was almost certain would be refused as it has been for the past 4 years now. There was no talk about taking away my credit margin or having to reduce my spending. We were having so much fun just chatting that at one point I realized we’d been at it for well over an hour. When I asked him how come he had so much time to devote to me in his busy schedule he said “I always make sure not to book anyone after you”. Talk about VIP treatment. He hadn’t seen me in almost 2 years and had expected to see an obese version of me dressed in rags with greasy hair plastering my face—something he’s seen with other customers of his who are mostly actors and the normally attractive type. By comparison apparently I looked amazing. For some reason, compliments coming from a gay man have always meant more to me, so I have to admit it felt good. Every time I see him I think about how lucky I am to have him in my life. He’s gotten me out of some pretty big pickles over the years asking nothing in return (except a promise to pay off my loans).
At one point in the middle of some light chit-chat, C looked over at his screen, then looked at me with a dramatic expression on his face and said “Oh. My. God. You. Won’t Believe It!” What? He jumped out of his chair and started doing a victory dance involving lots of hopping up and down, screaming “YOU’VE BEEN APPROVED FOR A CREDIT CARD!!! You’re finally in the clear!!! You’re a real person again!!!” I hopped and danced along with him. Finally I’m a pariah no more. I guess you had to be there, but the joy was palpable. It’s the best feeling knowing that old friends still continue caring about me even when I’ve given so little signs of life. For that I’m truly grateful.