Also, I am impulsive and air-headed.
I also take full responsibility for every time I allow desperation to turn me into a dipstick.
For some reason I can’t seem to fix this bad trait.
For example, I once had an irritating mosquito bite on my chest. It was the itchiest bite of my life, and it occurred on the same evening I wore a strapless dress to a party. Well, because that bite was itching like crazy, desperation drove me to wet a paper towel and tuck it into my dress, hoping for relief.
Moments later I noticed people looking quickly at my chest and then averting their eyes.
When I looked down I discovered that the wet paper towel had bled through the pastel pink. The front of my dress gave guests the false illusion that I badly needed to breast-feed.
Did I stop and think about possible consequences before I shoved that paper towel down the front of my dress?
Of course not.
I spent the rest of the evening with my arms folded. I looked like I was honked off at the world.
Another time, I was a young, penny-pinching single mommy looking for ways to increase my income. My friend – also a poor single mom – and I got the brilliant idea to dumpster dive behind the local college.
On Saturday and Sunday mornings we thought we could definitely cash in by collecting empty beer cans after crazy fraternity parties.
Since that was another time when I failed to be anything but desperate, we were attacked by thousands of mean bees. Our get-rich scheme failed miserably because we both hated bee stings.
A few months ago, when I wasn’t sure I could physically handle a full-time job just yet, I moved out of my sweet cousin’s rental house. I was afraid about my bills.
Here’s the nightmare … ready? Out of desperation I moved into an apartment.
The chick who grew up in the country. The one who absolutely loathes apartments. Desperation drove me to sign the lease and move in. And I’ve been in a bad mood ever since.
The biggest problem is the inhabitants of the apartment over my head.
For some reason they do a lot of running and jumping up there, like someone is training for the Olympics.
Sherri Coner is an award-winning journalist and humor writer who speaks to women’s groups. To learn about her books for women and to join her on Facebook, visit www.sherriconer.com.