My wife is a better human being than I am. I admit it. The evidence is irrefutable and absolute. She has a Titanium Card and I don't.
She didn't even ask for it. Like being awarded the Nobel Prize, she simply received an envelope in the mail informing her that she had been elevated from Gold to Titanium status in one bounding leap. Attached was her new card, which felt like plastic, but bore the word which signalled her entry into the most exclusive fellowship on earth: Titanium Woman and Man.
At first I thought it was a joke. In fact, I used to make such jokes. Back in the days when it actually meant something--if you were a shallow, insecure snob with bad skin and self-esteem issues--to have a Gold credit card, any lunch or dinner gathering was bound to end with a game of plastic one-upmanship.
"Here, let me pay with my GOLD card."
"No, just to make sure, I'll pay with my GOLD PREMIUM card."
"Well, I wonder if they'll accept my PLATINUM ELITE PREMIERE PLUS at a dump like this."
To which I would be tempted to chime in: "I'd offer to pay with my MOLYBDENUM-EINSTEINIUM ISOTOPE card, but I think I left it in its lead casing back in the laboratory."
Why titanium? It's something you find in rocket ships, not in Queen's Road jewellery stores. Don't these credit card people ever look at the financial pages? Check the Precious Metals Exchange, people: the next metal up, above gold and platinum, is palladium. On the other hand, Palladium Card sounds like an annual pass to a London musical theatre.
Those credit card people obviously flunked high school chemistry. On the Periodic Table of Elements, gold has an atomic number of 79, platinum is 78. Therefore the next posh brand of credit card logically should have been 77--iridium--with osmium, number 76, in reserve as the next elite level after too many riff raff get their calloused hands on Iridium Cards. Titanium, number 22, isn't even close.
Does anyone really care which metal their card is named after? As far as I'm concerned, there's only one consideration when choosing a credit card: the free welcome gifts. I don't think I'm alone on this. Tell the truth, have you ever once glanced at the little tiny printed Terms and Conditions on a credit card application form? Do you really pay attention to the interest rate or "member benefits" before you apply for the card? Of course you don't! All you ask yourself is: What do I get free with this thing? Even though you know what a scam it is.
When I was a kid I always pestered my mother to buy this or that sickly sweet crunchy cereal so I could get the secret decoder ring or Junior Magician trick cup or model car buried in the box. The prize was always, always a disappointment. On the other hand, better a lousy prize than be forced to eat cereal with no prize at all.
We adults think we've grown out of such childish whims, but credit card companies know us better than that.
Several years ago I was rewarded with an imported 5.1 surround speaker system with deep subwoofer just for applying for a certain card. Wow! I would be able to enjoy movies with blazing theatrical sound, for free! Just for filling in an application form. All I had to do was spend $2800 with the card within a month. There wasn't much I needed, and the parallel-import shops I frequent all tack on a three percent fee for using a credit card. But it would be worth it for that elaborate speaker system.
Let's put it this way: all those three percent surcharges I paid, if added together, would have purchased ten sets of the cheap crappy "imported" (from Shenzhen) speaker system. If I placed my ears real close and held my breath, and if the neighbours across the lane weren't watching television, and if I was in a nostalgic mood for the sound of vintage 1960s transistor radios, it sounded okay. Even the local dealer in scrap TVs and hi-fis didn't want it. Oh well. At least I finally had a Platinum Card, which made me the most important person in the family until my wife's recent elevation to Titanium status.
The next time I wasn't so easily fooled. A card company offered $400 in supermarket vouchers if I applied for their card. This was a no-brainer! Four hundred dollars converted to my favourite brand name processed food items, what could go wrong with that? Several weeks later I received a letter congratulating me that I could pick up my vouchers. Now, why couldn't they have simply placed the coupons in the envelope and saved everyone a lot of trouble? I phoned the number on the back of my card, punched in my card number and PIN code and half a dozen menu choices, and finally got through to a human being. She sweetly explained that "for security reasons" I had to pick them up in person.
The nearest "Premium Redemption Centre" was in Kowloon, inconveniently located halfway between two MTR stations. By the time I reached the ancient building I stank and my shirt was stained with dark ovals of sweat. The lift was filled with housewives, young office workers and old people, all of us avoiding eye contact with one another, as if ashamed to admit that we were each taking valuable time out of our day to queue up for a free trinket.
The lift door opened onto a line of 15 or more people stretching out the door and into the dimly-lit hallway. I realized how desperate I must appear. Four hundred dollars wasn't to be sniffed at. But it wasn't as if my financial well-being depended upon it. In fact, I qualified for the card because I wasn't desperate for $400. Suddenly I felt like a beggar lining up at the welfare office for food stamps.
Finally it was my turn. The taciturn ape behind the counter snatched the collection letter from my hand, made me sign it, then reached into a box, sneered and slapped the four precious cash vouchers onto the counter, as if I was, well, a beggar at the welfare office. I used them up later on several bottles of cheap English vodka which were necessary to soothe my feeling of humiliation.
Then the card companies try to keep you hooked with special offers and bonus points. Who are they kidding? Imagine: you're celebrating your anniversary over an elegant dinner at an expensive 6-star restaurant in a famous hotel. You secretly selected it because it was on a list of "carefully selected merchants" on the little colour flyer that slips out of your monthly card statement. You whip out your credit card and tell the waiter: "If I use this card, we each get a free glass of wine, right?" You'll lose more money in the divorce settlement than you saved on that house wine.
But the bonus points are worth it, aren't they? It took me two years, but I finally amassed enough points to convert into sufficient airline miles for a free trip to Taiwan. Trouble is, I don't particularly have a burning desire to visit Taiwan. The air miles are sitting in my account and will probably expire before I can use them. My wife redeemed her bonus points for a free makeup set. To me it resembles one of those paint sets that come packaged with paint-by-number hobby kits. But she claims she likes it. At least one of us feels well treated by our credit card.
If I ever want to feel good again about credit cards, I'll just have to wait until the next highest metal is issued. After Titanium, what? If the card companies really want to appeal to Hong Kongers, they need to consult the Periodic Table and select atomic number 88. That's radium.
I can imagine going out to dinner with colleagues. I grab the bill, take out my wallet and say:
"Think I'll use my RADIUM."
They all run for cover. Now, that's status!