Why, oh why do you persist in ignoring me? Where are my payment coupons? My options for paying electronically? Instead you cash my checks without a word. You file away the notes I write you for loan #2620059988 (or something like that. How would I know?). Am I just a number to you as well?
You see, MetLife, buying a house again was a big deal for me. I've always been a mobile sort, a tent dweller. One foot in the next place. Buying a house was sort of an eddy, a surrender to the sedentary. Besides, remember my last house? That all ended in recrimination, in dividing up our two matching sleeping bags, separating out what each had brought on this sinking ship, and an equally sinking realization that during the marriage, we had kept our things labelled "mine" and "yours." That a dream we had was irrevocably lost?
So buying a house again was huge, MetLife! It was a leap of faith. It was the hope that even having a mortgage and a backpack were compatible. That I could be tethered but still free to fly.
Know what I mean, MetLife? I love this cabin, I really love it. It is exactly the place I always wanted to live in: the honey-colored logs, the skylights, the sunroom. No more stifling rancher houses! This one wraps its arms around you. Yes, the neighbor watches my lawn closely. Mike across the street has a noisy five am truck. The yard needs some grass reduction.
Now don't think I'm not grateful. You picked up this loan when nobody else would, simply because it was a "unique property." I like to think we understand each other, that we don't go for the boring. That we take risks.
Right now my backpack rests by the front door, waiting to be unpacked and packed again. It's working out, MetLife. I don't think about moving on, not too much anyway. The current is not carrying me away like it usually does.
Be a pal, MetLife. Drop me a line. Let me know my pay-off date. My interest paid to date. A welcome-to-the mortgage card. Anything! I'll be waiting.