I can’t help but hate the show Deal or No Deal. It’s not that I especially dislike the concept or am thinking about how big of a joke Howie Mandel used to be, it’s because each contestant is so falsely confident. I’m sure the producers prep each contestant like this:

Producer: Ok, so no matter what number you pick…remember, you’ve got to act like you’re confident.

Contestant: But how can I be confident when I’m randomly picking numbers without any reasoning or method whatsoever.

Producer: Your telling me that picking the number 4 because you wore that number in little league isn’t a method?

Then Howie comes out and says, “If we think you’re unsure of where the million dollars is, we shoot your wife,” as the voice of Gizmo.

The reason these contestants’ false confidence irks me so much is because regular people have a problem making decisions. Whether it’s iced vs. hot coffee or express vs. local, making a decision is hard. At least, it’s hard for me because when I was 11 I learned that regret comes with two straps that go over your shoulders.

I’ve always been a saver. The idea of spending my money on pleasurable things instead of watching it sit and accumulate seemed ludicrous to me. When I was 11 my parents gave me $.50 every week for an allowance and I shoved those quarters into my pocket as if it were the Sarlacc pit – for non Star Wars dorks, that means it was meant to stay in there for a very long time.

Eventually, I gathered a small fortune in change and slowly strutted around with bulging pockets that looked like utters. I loved the effort it took to get up the stairs more than anything I could have bought.

Needless to say, I was not very cool. However, even while my pockets were seconds from splitting open, I wanted to be like Aaron Craig. Aaron Craig was the coolest of the 6th graders and as a lowly 5th grader, I looked up to him in awe. Everything he did seemed like it was the way things were meant to be done. If he were to drink chocolate milk at lunch, then drinking regular milk would be foolish. If he were to crap his pants, fall through a plate glass window and puke out dog food, than you’d better find some Alpo on the double quick.

One day, as I walked into school wearing a shirt inside out in a poor attempt to mask its smell, I saw Aaron hanging out by the water fountain wearing a pair of overalls. “Overalls?!” I said to him. “Don’t farmers wear those?”

It was true. Having lived my whole life twenty feet from a dairy farm, I was able to surmise that farmers always wore two things: 1) Overalls, 2) Cow shit.

Aaron turned his head and blankly stared down the hall. “They’re cool,” he said. “Guy from the Spin Doctors wears ‘em.”

I immediately started to panic. If this were true, I may never be able to redeem myself to Aaron. Not only would he realize I’m not up to date with fashion, but I also inadvertently proved my musical ignorance. I wanted to blurt out an obscure Red Sox fact like, “Jody Reed hit 45 doubles in 1990,” but there was no way to recover. I slinked away…jingling down the hall.

The following week, I went out with my mother shopping. I walked around the kids department, wondering where things had gone wrong. When did clothing other than a baseball uniform matter? Was I destined to be the grubby dirt ball my whole life and constantly apologize for it? I decided then and there, no. There was still time left and I could remake my smudged façade.

My hands moved furiously as I rifled through the little boys section. My parents hadn’t been big on buying their kids new clothes, but this time, “no” wasn’t an option. I would reason with my mother and then be stern with her. If those methods didn’t work, I would throw the Mount Everest of temper tantrums.

I’d almost gone through the first rack, when I came across the holy grail of “the new me” clothes – a pair of beautiful, stone washed overalls. If there was one moment I believed in god, this was it. My hands trembled as I reached for the price tag, ready to gauge what type of tantrum would be needed. When I flipped over the tag, I was met with something women across the world rate over money, love and sex: a giant red sticker that said “SALE.”

For some reason, the overalls had been marked down. Repeatedly! The original price of $39.99 had been slashed again and again until it sat here in my hands at $9.99.

My brain worked in hyper speed as I realized that not only could I talk my mom into buying these for me, but I didn’t need her at all. Six months of scrooge like savings sat in my pockets, ready to be dispensed for pleasure. I had never bought ANYTHING in my life and the realization I could live my own life and make my own decisions free of my parents made me shake with excitement.

I jogged over to the cash register and dumped $10 worth of quarters onto the counter. Once I heard the sound of the cash register opening, confirming my purchase, I ran out of the store feeling a lightness in my step (more from the lack of 40 quarters than the excitement of having purchased something).

When my mother saw me running out of the store with a pair of pants still attached to the hanger, she assumed I’d stole them. Through gasping breaths and broken sentences, I tried to explain, “No…Mom…It…I…Aaron…Spin Doctors…Money…Allowance…FREEEEDDDOOOOMM!!!”

The next morning, I shot out of bed to change into my new overalls. Immediately, I noticed they were a bit snug and for the first time in my life, noticed my penis. My other pants were considerably looser than these overalls and could be pulled down a little to relive some of the stress caused on said genitals. However, due to the very nature and design of overalls, pulling them down wasn’t an option.

I also noticed there was a considerable space between my shoes and the bottom of my pants. About five inches, I’d say. I could barely breathe and when I snapped open the left strap, it stood straight up instead of falling to a cool, casual position.

The kids at school were not impressed. Apparently buying overalls meant for toddlers wasn’t a way to gain credibility. Kids kept telling me my clothes were too tight, as if they’d solve the mystery of why I couldn’t take deep breathes. Of all the hurtful things kids said to me that day, the worst came from Aaron when he said, “Maybe you should have bought a pair of socks to put in the front there, Mosquito Dick.”

My attempt to be fashionable, independent and cool failed. That evening I went home, threw out my overalls and vowed to never buy anything ever again. I figured it was better to not try then to fail after effort.

Now, 16 years later, I still shop with the memory of those overalls. Every time I pick up an unconventional article of clothing I wonder if I’ll be at work having people ask me, “Is that made out of a tire,” or “Am I supposed to see your nipples?” For that reason, I remain conservative in my shopping habits.

So perhaps the people playing Deal or No Deal are confident because they know they have nothing to lose. Sure, they could miss out on some money and spend the rest of their days having strangers say, “I knew it was in case #8,” but never will they be haunted by the sound of overall fabric being stretched to its limits when sitting down. It’s a sound I hear whenever the wind blows.