got my first checking account as a freshman in college. I hardly needed one, since my balance never exceeded $200 and, more often than not, stuttered along for months at $9.75, just shy of the $10 withdrawal minimum. I had little use for checks, burning through most of them to write prank gifts to my friend Julie for things like “a billion samoleans.” One time, in the box where you’re supposed to write a number, I just drew a car. “Congratulations! Look what you’ve won!”

The sad truth was that during that period, Julie wrote me real checks—helping me skate by till my father sent more money. (I’ve paid her back. In samoleans.) I was bad with a budget, making ridiculous rationalizations for things I couldn’t afford: “OK, I can spend $100 on these trendy clothes. I just won’t eat anything but Ramen Noodles for two weeks!” Of course, I’d eventually try to sneak by a $3 check for toothpaste and Doral cigarettes, and the check would bounce, and I’d be further in the hole. It didn’t help that I cultivated an appetite and largesse that wholly exceeded my bank statement. A common refrain: “Let’s have another drink. This one’s on me!” If I’d been male in the 1930s, I’d be a poor sod drinking all the dole money at the bar. Instead, I was female coed in the ‘90s, frittering away my book allowance on cheese pizza and flannel shirts.

The years that followed brought high-interest credit cards and a rather unsettling correspondence with a “collection agency” called Thomas & Thomas, whose every sentence seemed punctuated by cracked knuckles. But eventually, about five years ago, I paid off all my credit cards. Can you believe it? I was debt-free. (This didn’t last, by the way. Did you really think it would?)

The last few years have been marked by occasional regressions, followed by healthy recovery. I bottomed out, yes. But I always came back. And, like Robert Downey Jr., I’ve been good and steady for a while now--but that doesn’t keep me from worrying. Which is why I bring all this up. Now I’m in New York, and there’s no messing around with money. For the past two nights, I’ve spent hours wide-eyed and shifting in bed (OK: the couch where I sleep) worrying about money. Where will it come from? How long will it last? What if there’s an emergency that costs, I don’t know, a billion samoleons? Will they take a fake check? It scares me. Worse than that—it keeps me awake. Maybe this is just another symptom of my paranoia. Or maybe this is just part of growing up. Which would be unfortunate—because I really, really like to sleep.

The thing is--financially, I'm fine. I’m just worried that I won't be someday. So don’t send checks or anything. Well, you can send checks, but you should make them out to Julie. I think I still owe her a few bucks.