The thin wallet and sheer bliss on tap

A few years ago I used to play in an inter-departmental indoor football league at work. The departmental team I played for was, at that time, an assembly of pathetic riffraff masquerading as football players. In short; they sucked seventeen lemons and their peels. I remember one particular fellow who used to take tiny Mr. Bean steps when he chased after the ball. He was the leading own goal scorer in the league. There were only two decent players in the team; one tubby fellow (who may ~~may not~~ be a current TL blogger) and myself. Week-in, week-out we got hammered by wide margins. 7-2, 6-1, 9-1 etc.

But man oh man, did the human tub of lard and I have a ball losing! Our approach (after the initial frustration of trying to win) to the games was; we’ll never win the war so we might as well enjoy the tiny little victories during the game. This involved executing fancy, yet absolutely useless crowd-pleasing gimmicks during the game. After the game we’d give each other high-fives with cold ones in hand and count the number of shibobos (nutmegs to my white peeps) we’d managed to pull off successfully. It was great.

I’m reminded of this each time I open a newspaper or listen to the news. Can we all agree that we live in freaking depressing times? Racism, kaffirs and blackouts etc (say load shedding and I’ll rip out your tongue by the root). Don’t get me wrong, I’m absolutely convinced that if we all continue to muck in and make a concerted effort to wade off all these evils, we’ll sort them out like we’ve done in the past. Although I must confess that on a personal level I never allow myself to get depressed by anything for longer than it takes for me to finish one cold one. That’s a bloody waste of time, I always say. What’s my secret you ask? Well I’ll tell you.

I always celebrate the tiny little victories in my life.

I am always pleasantly surprised at how happy little things make me. The tiny fingers of my 4-month old clasped around my thumb. The smell of the soil after a thunderstorm. (If you close your eyes and inhale right now you can probably catch a whiff.) A perfectly boiled egg with just the right amount of yellow goo inside the yolk. The thick foam from a new bar of white Lux soap. Sliding inbetween clean bed linen in freshly-pressed pyjamas. Aah, happiness on tap.

A few months ago I discovered a new pleasure in my life. Drum roll please: a thin wallet makes me emit subconscious squeals of delight. Really. Allow me to explain.

We ~~homophobes~~ real men do not carry more than a wallet, a mobile phone and a set of keys in our pockets. We have an extremely unflattering name for the type of man who carries one of those glorified handbags that men prance about with at Nelson Mandela Square. And we real men know this truth; there is no masculine method for carrying a handbag. As a result we walk around the malls with bulges in our pockets that make us look rather Picassoian.

The biggest culprit for our fat wallets is, of course, coins. Coins are the spawn of the devil to us. My wife’s handbag weighs about 12.5 kg on a good day because she has so many compartments to stash those freaking coins. But I only have one little pouch to keep all my coins. So I’m always trying to get rid of them at every opportunity I get. Because I’m a wretched miser, I always make a concerted effort to not simply give away the coins. But sometimes I’m so overwhelmed by the coins I have to roll down the window and shove a handful to the twitchy streetkid I always pass on my way to the office – my own contribution to the glue manufacturing industry. Of course, after I’ve done this, I always feel like a cheat and a fraud for using illegitimate means of coin disposal.

I’m glad you asked me what the legitimate means are. I always take it as a personal challenge to reduce the bulge on my wallet through my ordinary, everyday dealings. In other words; getting rid of the coins by paying exact amounts. Do not knock it until you try it. I cannot even begin to describe the kick I get out of paying R189.45 in exact change. Of course one cannot go overboard and pay all of it in coins. I think we can all agree that one R100 note, one R50 note, one R20 note, two R5 coins, three R2 coins, two R1 coins, two R0.50 coins, two R0.20 coins and one 5c coin is probably just on the ‘overboard/just right’ border but still reasonable. Nobody wants to be overwhelmed with a mountain of coins. A friend of mine and I once paid a taxi driver two fares of R4 each in 5-cent coins and he threw it back at us, almost taking out my left eye. Oh, I agree – if I’d lost my eye, I would have had it coming. Taxi drivers have stripped people naked for far less.

And so it came to pass that I left the office with an ugly, bulging wallet yesterday. First stop was the car wash at the corner BP filling station. While I waited for my Range Rover Sport to be washed I went and got myself an energy drink for R7.50. (Really, this Zulu ass is clinging onto the leather seats of a RRS these days courtesy of Hitler-with-tits of the SA Insult fame and her client, Land Rover. Only for a week.). Anyway; three R2 coins, two 50-cent coins, four 10-cent coins and two 5-cent coins later and my wallet was feeling lighter. When the fellows finished wiping down the car (followed by the obligatory two-minute rain shower of course) I paid them their R30 in two tens, one R5, two R2 coins, one 50-cent coin, two 20-cent coins and one 10-cent coin. All of a sudden my wallet was really, really thin. This is the point of coin shedding I like to call ‘almost happy’. On most days all I can ever hope for is almost happy. Almost happy is often good enough to elicit impromptu, unprovoked giggles inside of me. And then I walk into a supermarket and the total comes to R56.95, only to realize that I am R0.15 short of being able to empty my wallet completely of coins. And then I have to use a R100 note to pay and generate more coins. Crap.

Yesterday I still had a few coins jiggling inside my almost completely flat wallet as I approached the till at the Spar with trepidation. Would today be my lucky day? The charming, affable lady rang up the stuff I was getting for my wife and the total came to R132.10. My hands were shaking as I opened the wallet. R100 note. R20 note. R10 note. So far so good. Now I started digging in the coin compartment. R2 coin. And then I fished out a 5-cent coin, which seemed – horror of horrors! – to be the last coin in there (not counting the R5 coin for the driving instructor waiting for me in the parking lot). With a frantic panic I dug around some more and – stuck away in the corner was another 5-cent coin. HA HA! I win! The fat wallet syndrome loses! Woo hoo!

I stepped out of the supermarket into the last minutes of the glorious Highveld sunset with a thin wallet completely devoid of any coins. I felt like I had just won the Lotto. I opened the wallet again just to make sure I wasn’t dreaming and held the car guard’s R5 in my palm. Yep; three crisp R100 notes in there and a completely thin, flat wallet. Sheer bliss. Sweet Virgin Mary and the choir of Seraphims, was I giddy with joy.

As I walked incredulously towards the car I felt the type of joy that I only ever experience when I drive through ten perfectly-synchronized traffic lights. I discovered that I was humming a song of joy. Oh sweet joy.

I see skies of blue….. clouds of white
Bright blessed days….dark sacred nights
And I think to myself …..what a wonderful world

[Note to regular readers: I think that Thought Leader is depressing enough this week without me adding to the sulphuric stench. We will resume the depression early next week when I post part II of the coconut piece. Sigh. I hope you understand.]

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