Stubbed pride

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm not one to squeal or scream, even when watching horror movies. During today's contemporary class however, I discovered a disturbing and embarrassing habit. Our teacher made the comment that when watching everyone, he found it extremely amusing to listen to their effort noises. Apparently everyone has one, whether they are aware of it or not. This got me thinking, and I started listening for mine, and lo and behold, I found that I sound like a mouse on steroids. Every time I attempt a new jump, landing or roll, an odd, high squeak comes out, even when I try to stop it. I don't think that this is really going to impress potential employers, and it doesn't do much for my self-esteem either; I feel like an over excited  year old, or one of those children that are allergic to everything and are easily scared.
I managed to one up myself at the supermarket this afternoon, and although there were no old ladies there to gossip about my attire, I'm sure they would have had a field day. I was making a quick trip on the way home to grab some baking things and nail polish remover (two very normal, every day essentials that every one needs) and didn't remember until I was almost inside, that the length of my singlet made it look like I wasn't wearing any pants. At the same time I had this realisation, I made accidental eye contact with an elderly man passing me, and caught one of my thongs on the asphalt, stubbing my toe, and adding a little more embarrassment to the mix. Not only was I not wearing an appropriate amount of clothing, but I had to make an entrance to ensure that everybody noticed.
I did however experience a small win when  got home, in the form of parking my car. Since last Saturday, an unidentified car has been nicking my spot. No matter what time I left or came home, it would be there gloating, and forcing me to park all the way down the street. Today when I got home, it was conspicuously absent, and I was not complaining. Perhaps my hurrying through the supermarket because of my anti-trouser appearance meant that I beat them home. Whatever the reason, I experienced my first major urban parking space victory.
Right now I am experiencing a dilemma over the simple domestic chore that is mopping. I don't know what detergent to use, how quickly the floor will dry, or which corner to start in. First world, OCD problems. Who need them?
                                                      Little Duck, out.