View from the North 40: From the bottomless hole of on-hold

Today I would like to take a departure from my usual frivolous subject matter to touch on the serious topic of people’s worth, specifically, the value of my own life.

How much is my life worth? Is it worth, for example, $750?

When I was a small child, I was worthless for earning any wages or being productive in any helpful way. I was, as most babies are, a burden. I was not special in this way.

Perhaps if I had been a pretty child or one who made people feet compelled to say “oh, so adorable” and my parents so inclined as to rent out my looks, I might have easily earned that $750 several times over. Unfortunately, I was a rather plain child.

Still, let us hypothesize about my worth in terms of, say, a price per pound.

Of course, this is a grand idea for any baby, but a child’s value diminishes as the child grows. I was not an exceptionally large or stout baby so my worth per pound would have been quite decent as a newborn. However, by the time I hit seventh grade my worth — per pound — had diminished considerably. Bones harden, muscles fill in, a girl grows to the second tallest in her class. The first day of junior high gym class I weighed-in at 132 pounds.

It is an unfortunate condition of my genetics that I come from a long line of dense people.

At a total price of $750, I was not worth much per pound as a 13-year-old, and at my current size — well, let’s just say I’ve paid more per equal weight for hamburger. It turns out that I come from a long line of amply-padded people, too.

Fortunately, as my value per pound has diminished, my value per earning potential has increased, not quite to the same proportion, but I do OK, and sometimes, I do quite well.

This was an exceptional week.

We have a credit card that gives us points for usage which equates to a “cash back” deal.

Because we were waiting for $750 in credit card “cash back” reward gift cards to arrive in the mail and because they seemed to be overdue — and because I was trying to get back into my husband’s good graces after he did a hugely aggravating and physically taxing thing for me — I had to make the dreaded call to the credit card company.

It was like drawing The Short Straw of the Year, but into the void I dove, phone in hand.

It is in trying times like these — negotiating the infinite miasma of press-this-button-for options and enduring the black hole of on-hold that is filled only with bad musack and random moments of questions about the last four digits of your mother’s maiden name before being redirected to the right department, again — times of both despair and hope in equal measure, times that last 2 hours and 30 minutes, that you have the time to contemplate your worth.

According to Bank of America’s cash back rewards program, I am worth $300 per hour.

Score!

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I also had time to contemplate the future and how it might include a new TV and sound bar, or just a lot of groceries [email protected].