One of the things my husband has wanted me to do since I moved to the U.S. is build my credit. As soon as I got my permanent residence I opened a bank account, got a car and a couple of store credit cards that I barely use, but that I keep paid off. While I know that this is a country that lives of credit and applying for a credit card is less painful than a tooth extraction, I still get surprised when I obtain one. And when I receive it in the mail, I start hyperventilating because I consider credit cards the work of the devil. I’m sure nobody needs me to elaborate on that one.
My history with credit cards is not horrible, but it isn’t nice either. I got one while I was in college that my dad had to pay off because I wasn’t working, of course. And then I swore I was never going to get another one until I was responsible enough. But it turns out that “responsible enough” didn’t come with marriage. I don’t like to dig in the past or compare, but my building credit was definitely not one of my ex-husband’s suggestions. And then one day I found myself credit-cardless at Miami International Airport after Delta decided to cancel a flight. How was I supposed to get a hotel room? I did… It was just a pain in the butt. Then I got a copy of the ex’s CC and the rest became history with the divorce.
As soon as I was on my own and got a decent job, I applied for a Visa card from Desjardins in Canada and I obtained it fairly easily; it’s been paid off for months now. But I still see it, and it scares me. And now I have a MasterCard and another Visa I just got from Citi, with a decent limit (plus air miles that are greatly appreciated). I plan to leave them in my wallet collecting dust, though. I may like the idea of having them, but I still think there are evil forces behind them and they are emergency only.