The Anxiety Gene, Beefed Up

I don't know what it is about me and money.  I spend it like a drunk - like an active drunk - and then I go apoplectic over the littlest things.  Today was Move to a New Hotel Day, a day fraught with all kinds of useless anxiety over the smallest things.  First of all, I was pretty sure the hotel wasn't going to acknowledge the fact that I had prepaid my bill.  Second of all, and third of all and many, many more of alls the move required a few taxi rides.  I'm obsessed with getting screwed by unscrupulous taxi drivers despite the fact that I don't think I've ever . . . you know . . . gotten screwed by a taxi driver.

Worst case scenario - really the only kind of scenario that I envision - is the whole screwing and non-acknowledging would cost me a few bucks.  Not that I like to get screwed, mind you, just that the amount of angst and anxiety worrying about the few dollars far outpaces the pain of the screwing over.  If you said: "Seaweed, if you give me this amount of money I'll remove all angst from your mind" I'd knock you the hell over getting out my wallet.

So the sidebar is that I asked the hotel manager if I could add some extra money to the bill so that he could parcel it out as he saw fit to all of the staff: bell hops, front desk personnel, room cleaners, cooks, etc.  I thought he was going to break my arm shaking my hand.  He really seemed a little flustered at an amount of money not much larger than the amount I was going to lose in a full-on fleecing.  The day door kid said: "Sir, I'm going to miss you."  I think he teared up a little bit.

So it's not the money per se, I don't think.  I don't know what it is.  It's a microbe living inside my head that has totally beefed up my anxiety gene.

The bill, of course, was copacetic.  I took three cabs that day where I was treated honorably for fares that averaged about $4.  I tipped like a hundred percent.

Tomorrow, however, it will all be different.