On The Lam

No matter how many times I change address, hopping from one province to another like an escaped convict on the lam, my Alumni Association keeps finding me. I've never sent them a change of address, never phoned, never seen them, nor sent a fruitcake at Christmas. Yet, within two months of moving (sometimes three, but only if I've run through at least a half-dozen streams to throw them off my scent trail) an Alumni letter will arrive in my mailbox, followed by a quarterly newsletter and then a friendly phone call.

My Alumni Association wants money, and they're willing to use the combined efforts of Interpol, MI6, and the CIA to get it. Not even Canada Customs and Revenue goes that far. Sure, there's the implied threat of joining a chain gang in Nunavut if you're a dollar short on your return, but not the persistence, the water torture-like dedication to wrenching away money like my Alumni Association.

If Osama Bin Laden had gone to my university, they would have found him long before WMD meant something more than a Whopper with mayo and dill.

The thing is, no one was very interested in me when I was there. Professors were happier than not when I skipped class, one even taking me out for a beer in order to suggest that I might want to do it on a more permanent basis. I rarely used the library, never set foot in a computer room, and would venture inside the athletic centre only because it offered a shortcut home when I went out for groceries.

I figure I'm due a hefty refund.

But the Dean's office is up for renovation, so all seems to be forgiven now. I'm on the monthly Alumni invite list for socials, pick up softball games, movie nights, and wine and cheese schmooze fests at restaurants I can normally never get into. And once a year there's Homecoming, a time to head back to the old Alma Mater, drink like you did when you were twenty, then go stand in a fall rain to watch the old Purple and Gold turn a muck brown at the Homecoming football game. For a fee, mind you, and a generous donation if I'm able.

Ah, but now I am able, thanks in no small part to the impressive collection of credit cards that I now possess. In the last month alone, I've been contacted by five companies offering me pre-approved cards, all with low interest, high limits, and cash advances at no extra charge.

How is it that when my own bank still hasn't got my change of address right, their competition is practically knocking down my front door with offers of everything short of a free trip to Thailand to get me to sign up. A coincidence? I think not.

I think my Alumni Association is tipping them off.

The banks want to give me money, my association wants to take it, so what could be better? Before you know it, there'll be real marble flooring in the grad lounge, I'll be up to my eyeballs in debt, and all that will be left to do is decide who gets my Mötley Crüe records in bankruptcy court.

And it doesn't stop there. As a valued member, I'm eligible for everything from preferred mortgage rates to discount chewing gum. Would you like to have a specially priced-three-day weekend car rental and discount hotel package, a cellphone with fifty free minutes and comprehensive life insurance for when it all gets too much and you drive yourself, your mid-sized four door with complimentary air upgrade, and your free movie rental coupons over a cliff? These people have my mailing address, my phone number, and possibly tee times with my family doctor, all to see if I've received my association approved info packet.

Pretty soon it's going to be reminder notices by carrier pigeon.

As you can see, I'm all but checkmated. Even if I moved to the top of Everest it wouldn't be long before a Sherpa guide arrived with an invitation to the Chancellor's Convocation Luncheon. The only question now is whether I want to have my name on the new science building, or the refurbished student union.

I'm sure I'll get credit approval anytime now.