Am I the Only One?

Am I the only one who gets anxious using vending machines? My hand is practically shaking as I insert the crispest dollar bills I can find and my mouth is repeating the number and letter that corresponds to my junk food item over and over so that I don’t forget it, or in case my finger-brain-connection short circuits before I push the buttons. Then after making my selection I watch the cold, circular wire turn slowly, knowing that it won’t twist quite far enough and my item will get stuck. If it makes it past this point surely my item will get stuck in the bottom of the machine or my hand will be too fat to hoist it out of the trick opening. It’s probably from watching sitcom scenes featuring this situation that I have this fear, because I’ve never actually lost money in or had an item stuck in a vending machine. I just don’t ever want to be the unsuspecting victim of this tragedy. Probably if I worry enough while operating a vending machine this will never happen. I can’t lose those crisp dollar bills.

Am I the only one who can’t do a back flip off a diving board because of my control issues? I truly think that I am athletic enough to do it, but somewhere between the jump and dismount off the diving board my need to see and control the environment I am jumping into takes over. I end up looking like a flopping fish. A sideways belly flop is the closest I come to executing a back flip. I’ve given up trying. The bright red skin and vertigo aren’t worth it.

Am I the only one who is a library felon? I have purchased three library books on three separate occasions due to my dog’s preference of taste. Apparently borrowed books taste better to dogs than owned ones. Not only have I purchased books from the library, I have also stolen a book from the library. Unwittingly, of course. Please don’t call the Spartanburg Public Library to report me. I am planning to mail it back. We were in the midst of packing and moving when we started racking up late fees for Maisy’s Train. It was nowhere in our house or cars. I remember my oldest son placing books up on the self-checkout scanner at the library weeks before. I told him to put Maisy’s Train back because we had recently borrowed it. I really thought it never ended up in our possession but instead had been falsely scanned. I had multiple phone conversations with the library from hundreds of miles away in our new location telling them the story. I finally spoke to a manager who erased the charges and stopped them from being sent to collections. Several months later we found it! My husband found it under the seat in one of our cars. I’m almost too embarrassed to send it back. Please tell me I’m not the only library felon out there with this kind of guilt eating me up?

Am I the only one who gets really nervous standing in three feet of ocean water? The trepidation grips my heart as I force myself to walk into the lilting waves. I scan the murky water looking for trash bag-like objects. That’s what I thought it was when I was stung by a jellyfish. The pain of a thousand fire ant bites seared through my thigh. I scrambled up my mom like she was a tree; jumping into her arms as any self-respecting 14 year old would do and begged her to bring me back to the shore. No one peed on my jellyfish wound (isn't this the remedy?) to ease the pain. I suffered in sterile silence to maintain my cool teenage image in front of other beach goers. Ever since then I have been a little unnerved in cloudy ocean water. I’m not even worried about sharks. Having my foot bitten off wouldn’t be too bad. I’ve heard the sharper the teeth the cleaner the cut; basically a tickling sensation compared to the stinging current of a tentacled trash bag. I can’t go through that again. That’s why I send my husband in first. If he comes back with un-electrocuted skin I might wander in.

Am I the only one who has tried to give up caffeine 108 times? Every time I get to that second day of deprivation I start to question my motivation. Every cell in my body screams out for dark roast. I scroll through online articles (again) reading through the health benefits of coffee. Whatever evidence I am looking for to support my addiction I will find; ignoring all the other articles that represent the other side. My left hand holds the phone with the article an un-credentialed aspiring naturopath wrote while my right hand pops the k-cup into the Keurig. My adrenals are likely failing, my bladder might be spasming and my sleep is fitful most nights, but I’m banking on the fact that I won’t have dementia fifty years from now. What if I am successful one day in eradicating coffee from my life? Then what? What’s the point?

Am I the only one who feels like an Olympic athlete while running on a treadmill at the gym? As soon as the speed reaches 6.8 mph I feel like a Grecian citizen in the first Olympic Games. The elliptical riders behind me are all in awe of my endurance and speed. Or this is what it felt like in college, at least. It’s been awhile since I’ve run the Olympic eight and half minute mile at the gym. Lately I’ve been walking or have been the elliptical rider admiring the runners in front of me. Supposedly walking is just as healthy as running (said the same organization that pushed self-esteem agendas in the early 2000’s). So why are my arteries embarrassed as the 72-year-old man sprints at a break neck speed in his spandex on the treadmill next to me? Maybe one day I’ll get back to my Olympic athlete treadmill status. For now I won’t let my self-esteem suffer from walking.

Please tell me I’m not the only one.