I hate money. I really, truly, honest-to-God hate money. And the one thing that makes me cringe just a little more than money itself, is the thought that I am required by the Cannon of Adult Code to deal with it. Routinely. Bah.

I think it’s no secret to those that know me that I’m a worrier (insert joke about premature grey hair here). I always have been. But the king of the hill, numero uno on the list of stress factors for me is The Dough. It’s safe to assume this is why I loathe financial issues so much.

Babysitting for my niece last night, I sat down to read the latest issues of Money and Fortune magazines. What I should have done, instead, is run out into the street to find a dirty needle to stick myself with. At least that would be something tangible for me to be paranoid, anxious and upset about.

Granted, I’ve read both of these magazines on plenty of occasions before (though each time I still feel like a four year old dressing up in dad’s clothes—minus the cuteness). But each time, the articles leave a bad taste in my mouth. It’s as if once you enter the working world, the marathon of your career is treated more like an all-out sprint. Everyone else around you is frantically running, bug-eyed and possessed, towards the retirement finish line. Everyone has his or her own secrets, shortcuts and training tips. But anyone who’s ever run a real, competitive race knows the fleeting and instantaneous feeling of, “oh sh*t, everyone else is going to beat the living snot out of me!” Visions of walking the last 23.5 miles alone in the dark when everyone else has gone home can be almost paralyzing. And when it comes to money, that’s how I feel.

The Wife™ says I shouldn’t worry so much about retirement, salary, career paths, etc. But again, once I hit the invisible line of adulthood, I assumed the prototypical male identify of protector. And I can’t shake it. If I don’t make as much money as I possibly can, as early on as I can, padding bank accounts and Roth IRAs with as many evil dollars possible, I lose. That’s how my puny monkey brain works. And that is sad. I fear future setbacks. I’m afraid of tragic and unforeseen expenses. I live in fear of the thought that one of us may get laid off or seriously injured. All of these fuel the thought expectation that I need to somehow make more money than I am now. If it were simply a case of envy, that I only cared (and thought) that everyone else around us had more money, than I would just ask The Wife™ to close my head in the car door a few times to clear things up.

But instead, I’m worried for my future children. I’m scared to death that I will not be able to give them what they need, as successfully as my parents did. They pulled off the greatest magic trick in the world. And I’m afraid that the magic doesn’t run in the family.

So now I’m off to see if there are any classes that I can enroll in that will learn my ignorant ass. And to pull out my hair. Which is already grey.