I suffer from an imperfection called perfectionism, and I’m really bad at math. Don’t ask me to play Monopoly. I have annoying questions before even considering an attempt at doing something I’ve never done before, such as being dropped off to pay bills for my parents.

I also have problems doing things I’m uncertain of in front of people because I fear I won’t be good at it, like the uneven parallel bars at Mt. Carmel. Miss Davis, our way-ahead-of-her-time PE teacher made us demonstrate moves for an exam. I refused to take the exam and was ready to accept the grade of F when my mother approached her in the cigarette-smoke and dark-roasted percolated coffee-engulfed teacher’s lounge and asked if she’d consider testing me after everyone went home. She did, and I passed. Thanks Mama!

Come to think of it, all this started back in 1963ish. I had great parents, but who ever heard of dropping their child off at Criem’s while they made the block?

I just got back from our 33rd annual Orange Beach vacation. Jacques was to meet us at the beach with necessities like our knives, cutting boards, a black iron pot, a Magnalite roaster, a blender, a potato peeler and beach chairs, including George’s unnecessary beach chair, and I would drive to New Orleans to scoop Emily and her family up at the airport.

I fretted over which lane to get in for the arrivals starting in March. The trip was in August. I considered driving to New Orleans to practice my arrivals route 10 times so I wouldn’t look lame in front of my almost 5-year-old granddaughter, the ever-observant Eve. My almost-two-year-old-not-so-observant-grandson doesn’t care. George just likes to clean. I worried about the drive back alone from the beach to New Orleans and added parking in the French Quarter to the list the second I arrived at the condo. I assumed I would follow Jacques because he was going to New Orleans as well, but no, he took off faster than the speed of light while murmuring some sort of incoherent “exit” I should take. I only made out the letter B.

My angst was I’d be entering the Quarter the opposite way from New Iberia and it brought back memories of word problems in Miss Whitman’s class. Remember the one about if the train left at a certain time, what time did the train arrive — or something like that? So I put in the route from Orange Beach to Toulouse Street and cautiously left. After I realized I apparently put in East instead of West because it told me to “Make A U-turn Now” about 23 times. I followed I-10 West until I was close to New Orleans, pulled over, put my GPS in the right direction this time and made it to the Quarter in record time.

I found a space in front of the apartment, showered, put on the nicest of my not-so-nice beach wardrobe, called Uber and met José at The Roosevelt where he was recognized for his 35th year in Family Medicine. Then I drove back to New Iberia just in time for Teche Classic Movies’ premier of “The Wizard of Oz” on the big screen with my hometown folks. After conquering all these concocted road-blocks, I felt like if I’m ever asked to join in a game of Monopoly again I could say with conviction, “I don’t want to be the banker.”

Home — where everything is familiar and easy for an imperfect gal like me who suffers from perfectionism. All I had to do was put my GPS in the right direction. On second thought, I should’ve just clicked my heels. There really is no place like home.

PHYLLIS BELANGER MATA was born at the old Dauterive Hospital and grew up on Wayne Street. She is a 1974 graduate of Mt. Carmel Academy and is a chili dog “without the wiener” aficionado.