Ok, we all know I don't actually have a rep to ruin because, well, who cares? Least of all me.
But seriously, this moving business still kicks my ass on the regular.
An alternate title for this post could be "How Decision Fatigue is Destroying My Ability to Human in 20 Minutes or Fewer."
Trying to find the face cream I've been using for the last four years (I never bothered before that because I'm no good at being a girl). I can't find it in the store. I walk into Ulta. They have Nivea, but not my product. Tired of looking and not finding, I decide just to pick up something else (also known as: The Fatal Flaw). Do you know how many different types of moisturizers and creams and toners and masks a place like that has? Too many. And not the one I want. I recently heard about toner (no, not the copier kind, that kind I knew about years ago), and as I am easing into my 30s, I am noticing some particularly unkind discoloring (especially on my upper lip, so it looks like I have a stache --which, despite their meteroic rise to popularity, are still not fashionable on women--that needs bleaching or shaving or both), and I am told toner will help with that.
I finally make a selection (Eenie Meenie Minee Moe would have been equally as effective as my process) and make my way to the register. I am whipped into a savings card process where I give out my name, number, address, birthday, maybe my mother's maiden name, my social, and rights to my first born (ha! Jokes on them this time!), but don't-worry-it-is-not-a-credit-card.
After that, I walk up to the "Push" door only to realize I nearly walked right into it, expecting it to open for me automatically. This epiphany nearly causes me to trip over my own feet as I make my way through the second set of doors and I feel similtaneously dizzy and giddy and nauseous. I feel like I could maybe identify with a two-year-old tantruming in that moment.
Can I just not be new anymore?
But seriously, this moving business still kicks my ass on the regular.
An alternate title for this post could be "How Decision Fatigue is Destroying My Ability to Human in 20 Minutes or Fewer."
Trying to find the face cream I've been using for the last four years (I never bothered before that because I'm no good at being a girl). I can't find it in the store. I walk into Ulta. They have Nivea, but not my product. Tired of looking and not finding, I decide just to pick up something else (also known as: The Fatal Flaw). Do you know how many different types of moisturizers and creams and toners and masks a place like that has? Too many. And not the one I want. I recently heard about toner (no, not the copier kind, that kind I knew about years ago), and as I am easing into my 30s, I am noticing some particularly unkind discoloring (especially on my upper lip, so it looks like I have a stache --which, despite their meteroic rise to popularity, are still not fashionable on women--that needs bleaching or shaving or both), and I am told toner will help with that.
I finally make a selection (Eenie Meenie Minee Moe would have been equally as effective as my process) and make my way to the register. I am whipped into a savings card process where I give out my name, number, address, birthday, maybe my mother's maiden name, my social, and rights to my first born (ha! Jokes on them this time!), but don't-worry-it-is-not-a-credit-card.
After that, I walk up to the "Push" door only to realize I nearly walked right into it, expecting it to open for me automatically. This epiphany nearly causes me to trip over my own feet as I make my way through the second set of doors and I feel similtaneously dizzy and giddy and nauseous. I feel like I could maybe identify with a two-year-old tantruming in that moment.
Can I just not be new anymore?
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