I’m basically Pedro Cerrano.
You know, the Cuban, Voodoo-loving Cleveland Indian from Major League. The one whose bats only liked straight balls—and not, you know, curveballs.
There’s little that brings on instant panic more than:
“Wife, I just need you to call {insert Government Agency here} and ask them to do {insert task I don’t understand} for you.”
SCREEEEECH.
Wait. What? Just? What do you mean JUST? I am not properly prepared for this.”
“It’s not a big deal. You just tell them {thing I know nothing about} and {other thing I know nothing about}.”
“What if they ask me questions I don’t know? What if I panic and mix up my social insurance number and my social security number? Can I get deported? What if I have to define RP account—I don’t even know what that is! What if I forget my children’s names? What if I didn’t prepare the right script here? What if I appear shady? YOU ARE BASICALLY SENDING ME TO THE WOLVES HERE!”
Being an adult is stupid.
I say eff you Jobu. I’m going to put on my big girl panties, sing the words to We Didn’t Start The Fire in my head—what I always do to help with panic attacks—and go out there and hit me a damn curveball.
And probably weep and sweat a little bit too.
(Also, I think that guy peddles for Allstate now, so.)
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