The H.A.L.T. Rule

Common sense. Oh, common sense. What has happened to you in this day and age? Do you feel forgotten, left behind, mocked even? Sometimes it seems that no one uses you any more except for adorable old couples from the South and people who drop out of law school to own and operate bakeries.
The days of "If it ain't your dog, don't walk it" and "Don't bet on a tater hill before grabblin time" seem to be faded, or maybe pushed, far into the past.

My personal favorite is the H.A.L.T. rule: Never make any decisions when you are Hungry, Angry, Lonely, or Tired.

But even though we don't listen to our own common sense, it's still there, just waiting for us to use it when the opportunity arrives.

Case in point: Because I did not use common sense, the other night I thought I was hallucinating.
Nope. Not a joke. Fo realz.

I work as a cocktail waitress at a popular bar in downtown Manhattan, and as a result I put up with a lot of shit from ornery customers and people who like to pretend they never heard of a tip. I am usually pretty good-natured about this and over the years have learned how to handle it, but saturday..... oh saturday.
It was my Perfect Storm.

I arrived early per my bosses request because our bar was the last stop on the Greenwich Village Pub Crawl and it was going to be packed. And it was. And just as those people started to finally leave, the normal Saturday night crowd came in. And kept coming. And kept coming.
To the point where there were so many people it took me 5 minutes just to get from one side of the bar to the other.

Now, it may not seem like a hard job, but I run my ass off and try my best to sell drinks and make sure people have a good time. I know it's nothing to really be proud of, but dammit I'm a good waitress. And saturday night, even though sometimes I pictured myself graphically and mercilessly killing certain customers, I was keeping an eye on my tips and knew I was doing well.

At the bar, we keep all of our money folded together, and the computer keeps track of how many drinks we order, and then at the end of the night we give the bar the money for the drink sales and keep the rest. On a night like this, for me it should have been around $300.
Should. Have. Been.

I counted my money once.
"Must be a mistake"
I counted it twice.
"I must have put some somewhere else... wait, no I didn't"
I counted it thrice.
"WHAT THE F***"

I was left with a grand total of $11.

I know, I know, you are all thinking of a perfectly sane and easily explained reason for this, but please keep in mind that at this point it is 3:30 AM and I have been on my feet for no less than 11 hours. I start going over the night in my head, trying to see if maybe I undercharged people, if anything seemed out of order, if I dropped off some money at the bar? Not a chance.
The money, seemingly, had disappeared into thin air.

And this is the point when my brain goes haywire. I actually thought that I had hallucinated charging people the right prices and that all night my brain had been screwing with me. After 2 months away and coming back feeling like things were finally really and truly different for me, I though my brain was having a breakdown trying to drag me back down again. And so I did the sanest thing I could think of at that time.
I completely freaked out, started crying hysterically, and stormed out of the bar.

Of course, I talked to my version of personified common sense (mom) and she assured me that of course it was a pickpocket who was smart enough not to steal my entire roll of money to alert me, but only take a bunch of twenties that I would not notice for hours.
And if I had not made a decision when I was Tired, Angry, and Hungry I probably would have realized this too.

Morals of the story? More often than not, there is an explanation for anything, Don't carry so much money around at once, and of course, When in doubt, call Mom.

And before you decide, don't forget to H.A.L.T.