Financial Fiasco

My junk table.

A couple of weeks ago, I received a text from my mother mid-morning requesting that I call her over my lunch hour.

The vagueness of the text could have indicated any number of semi-serious incidents on the home front, but when I called her I was both relieved and slightly annoyed that I would have yet one more responsibility helping on my day’s stress plate. My Certificate of Deposit (CD) had matured and I had about four hours remaining of my grace period before it’d automatically renew for another 19 months at a crappy, non-rising rate of interest.

I admit, I got the letter in the mail notifying me that it would soon be maturing, but between a somewhat recent move (a girl can’t think of every place to update her address, especially a financial institution where her money has been silently collecting a sad interest rate since college) and the letter lying unopened on my “junk table” for several days after receiving it, its maturity date had passed and I dismissed the misfortune with a “well, this sucks, but better luck next time, kid” attitude.

Well, thank God for mothers. I swear the bank’s notification said nothing about a 10-day grace period, but neither here nor there, the recent incident proved that my mother is still looking out for my financial well being. Thanks, Mom.

Now that I’ve finally signed for and received the cashier’s check (that was a whole additional saga involving not receiving a slip notifying me it could be picked up from the post office and then being an idiot and my address escaping my memory when there), I get to decide what to do with my “newfound” money.

Now, it’d depend who you ask, but to someone that’s within their first two years of full-time employment, it’s a relatively attractive figure that seems like it appeared out of thin air.

The reality, though, is that it came from a childhood of working with cows and sitting on a tractor in the summer to put up hay to feed said cows in the winter, but I was fortunate that my parents funded virtually everything for me in my adolescence and taught me the importance of saving and investing.

Which is probably why, and rightfully so, I would be plagued by a guilty conscience if I did anything with the money other than reinvest it — and I will, but begrudgingly.

Investing for my future doesn’t seem nearly as fun as owning a bunch of brand new materialistic items today.

It also means that I now get to begin the tedious process of “shopping around” for the best rate of interest on a CD.

While tedious, I suppose it’s a small price to pay for being able to retire early.

Well, that’s maybe a stretch, but perhaps finance a new car or put a down payment on a house.

Or, depending on how many Minnesota winters I endure, it’ll help finance many Caribbean cruises and accompanying martinis.

What I’ll do with the funds remains unknown — and while I don’t expect to fly gracefully over future financial hurdles (because like any average person, I’m anticipating there to be some) — I’m hoping to at least fumble my way over them.