The Change Panic

I have change counting phobia.

There I said it.

How old are you when you learn to count money again?  Six…seven?

Maybe I need to go back to elementary school? I'd probably still fit behind one of the desks...

I distinctly remember learning to count money in maybe first of second grade.  We had these little paper coins and dollars that we would use to practice with.  It frustrated me then, and I’m still frustrated now.

Don’t get it twisted, I know how to count money.  That’s not the issue.  The issue is the sheer panic I fall under while doing so.

Sometimes I wish I had one of these.

I went shopping the other day, and when it came time to pay, the change called for 67 cents.  Easy right?  Normally, but there were at least four impatient people behind me.  I started frantically searching through my wallet, muttering under my breath, “I swear I had a quarter in here somewhere.”  The sales girl, who was probably about seventeen, was chomping on her gum, staring at me in disbelief.  I pulled out some change, dropping multiple coins on the floor, and that’s when I really started to panic.  A nice southern gentleman behind me picked it up, handing it to me, and giving me an “I feel sorry for you” smile.  As I retrieved the coins, I immediately started counting, but I kept getting stuck from the pressure. “Ten, fifteen, twenty,” I mentally counted, “Wait was that twenty cents I just counted?  What did I just count?!”  I stared down at the coins in my hand, the hysteria blurring my vision, and started over.  Getting frustrated, I handed her my entire handful of change, and let out a deep sigh of relief that it was off my hands.  She looked at me like, “Are you crazy?” And proceeded to count it out for me, pushing the remaining change back over to me across the counter when she was done.  I weakly smiled, embarrassed that I’m a 29-year-old woman who has change counting panic.

I’ve got to be honest, I think I totally deserve a big fat “Who does that, like seriously who does that” label?

After all, I’ve earned it.

My only question is:  Am I alone in this?  Or do other people have the “change panic” too?

~The End.

Photos by phillysportsphan.blogspot.com, and pinterest.  

A Somewhat Hairy Sitch…

So, today I decided to give myself a haircut.  Why?  I really couldn’t tell ya.  Maybe it was boredom?  Living in the Caribbean I know sounds super exotic, right?  Well, that was kind of rude of me to assume, maybe it sounds like a H-E-double L- hole to you…either way or however you view it, I guarantee this place is not what it seems to you…ugh, there I go again with the assuming…I guess what I am trying to say is, living in Grenada is not always that exciting, and sometimes you have to make your own fun, which is precisely what I did today. (<–If by fun you mean almost having a breakdown because you got half-way through cutting your own hair, only to realize that there was a very very good chance you were about to ruin your hair, then it was tons and tons of fun! WOOO!  Can you tell I’m lying?  I am totally lying to you right now.

I woke up this morning feeling like, UGH.  Do you ever wake up feeling like that?  I just looked in the mirror and my hair looked so flat and tepid, that I thought my hair could use a little one-two, and that was it.  The idea to cut my own hair was sprung…(Btdubs, I have cut my own hair before, but just a lil’ trim and everything turned out just fine, so what was the harm?)…I know you’re probably wondering why there aren’t places in Grenada where I can go and have my hair cut, and I will answer that question by saying, there are places, but I have heard horror stories about them chopping off people’s hair and such.  So, therefore I wouldn’t even consider entrusting my tresses into those wretched scenes. On a side note, it is me who actually is the resident hair stylist on campus, and I do cuts out of our apartment all the time, because the students don’t want to have their huuuur cut by any of those cray cray hair places either…(<–Can you tell I am trying my best to justify to you all that I am not a high maintenance loony person?)  P.S. They have been known to cut women’s layers with a clipper. (<–Yep, stillllll justifying…) Anyway, so I thought my idea was a brilliant one, and I even told me husband about my plan, and he said, and I quote, “Oh Lordy, I’m gettin’ out of here.”  Because he knows where this little endeavor was about to take me, and even he could see that it was taking me on sure shot ride straight to where the crazy people reside.

So, I got my little spot all set up, in our bathroom, which is where all the magic was going to happen.  I had my handheld mirror, combs, water bottle, mat on the floor (as to not make a mess), and I was ready to go.  I wet my hair down, sectioned it out with clips, and everything was right with the universe.  About half-way through trimming the ends of my hair, I started to get cocky, and my mind raced in a bit of a mania, and I thought to myself, “I am already cutting my hair…and the wedding is over now…so why not just go for it, and really give myself a change.”  Yes, anyone can see where this story is headed.

P.S.  This is where pictures of the wondrous experience would be, but I can’t even post them because you would all see the photographs of a woman on the verge of hysterical histrionics.  ‘Nuff said.

So, I proceeded to take more and more off the layers, until I got to a point, of what some might call, no return…kind of a fork in the road…a dead end, if you will…but I had to keep going, I mean, I had no choice.  I had over ambitiously cut way too much off the layers at the back of my head, so when I got to the front of my hair, I freaked.  When I saw that in order for my hair to be even all the way throughout, that I needed to take off…well, a lot of hair (I don’t even want to tell you inches because it will make you shudder), I had somewhat of a nervous breakdown.

Matt came into the bathroom and attempted to defuse the situation.  He said, “Would it help if I took some pictures?” (He was only trying to help, because I had, had a tripod set up to take some shots while I was doing what was supposed to be a fun little project…)  But it wasn’t the picture-taking situation that had me worked up, it was this dreadful haircut I was knee-deep in that had me cursing the world.  I didn’t even need to answer, because I think he could see the crazy look in my eye, that there would be no pictures today.  No, none at all.  It was not a picture perfect kind of day.

I managed to walk away for a few minutes to compose my thoughts, eat some candy, read my blog comments, twiddle my thumbs, before going back into the place that had become my own little personal hell…aka, the scene of the crime.  So, I gathered my thoughts, took a deep breath, picked my sanity off the floor, and began to cut.

Somehow, someway I managed to finish without completely losing my marbles.  I just calmly went through the rest of my hair section by section, until I finished.  When all was said and done, it actually looked…good.  I have to say, I was actually pleasantly surprised with the results…which leads me to believe that maybe I was just being crazy, and it really wasn’t that bad all along…Perhaps I just thought it was…

All I know is, whatever the case may have been, I will never…and I repeat…never…cut my own hair again.  I prom.

P.S. Remind me that I made this vow 6 months from now…