The panic is beginning to set in...

It all started with a bill.

At least, I thought it was a bill. It certainly looked official, and it had my name on it. When I opened it, the only part I could make out was the 97,400 clearly displayed. When I asked a friend to translate for me, all he could manage in his limited English was a knowing, "Ah, yes. Insurance."

I spent the next day in a panic, pacing my living room and playing out all sorts of bizarre worst-case scenarios in my mind. If that number was a fee, there was no way I could afford it--especially if it was a monthly one. How had insurance gotten so expensive in a country with social health care, anyway? Weren't all those Japanese businessmen supposed to foot the bills for those of us who couldn't afford regular baths? I imagined informing Interac that I couldn't pay and then facing some unknown enemy (the company, or the government, or...why not?...the Yakuza!) who would inexplicably force me to pay for insurance I did not want by weeding rice paddies and clearing mountainsides of bamboo. And then I'd have to smuggle myself out of the country and when people asked what happened to my big plans to teach in Japan I would have to explain that I could never go back because I was wanted by the government, and not even for anything exciting either.

Then Mogi-san looked at it and laughed, telling me that it had nothing to do with me. It was just some detail of the coverage plan; not a fee at all.

This kind of stress is to be expected when you're living in a foreign country, but that doesn't make it any easier on your poor, adrenaline-riddled heart. Luckily I've found a way to cope: vending machines.

I got the white one with cow spots!

I've mentioned them before, but then they were just a passing curiosity. Now they've become little life rafts of sanity.  Whenever a situation suddenly vaults itself into the realm of way-too-much-to-handle, I dart to one of these machines. You can find one literally anywhere; they're more common than pets. So I dart to one of these and take a breather, considering all my beverage options in a nonchalant way that I hope conveys a message: "What, you thought I was here to integrate myself with your culture? Silly. Clearly I am here to experience your unique beverages, that's all. I got an apartment because it was a convenient distance from these machines. I got a car to take me to the less convenient machines. I'm only working here to fund this habit and am not at all invested in my own performance or concerned about my capabilities. Obviously."

Like the time I tried to refill my gas tank. The gas stations are full-service here, which would be very luxurious if you weren't the girl who rolled into the station with no idea which side your gas tank is on  or how to pay--much less how to say "gas tank" and "should I pay inside?"--and can now only blush furiously and throw money at the employee while repeating, "Gomen...gomen...gomen nasai" ("I'm sorry...I'm sorry...So sorry..."). Luckily the employee was unbelievably friendly (are you sensing a pattern?) and tolerated my laughable attempt with a broad smile and a promise  to study English so she could help me in the future. I was grateful and comforted by her silly promise (as if it was her fault I couldn't handle daily tasks), but the minute my tank was full I sped of for my rendezvous with a strawberry milk.

When I got lost and ended up in an unfamiliar supermarket, I left room in the budget for Calpis.

When I wandered into a local farmers' market, I headed straight for the canned peach juice.

When I got lost again, I beelined for the drinkable yogurt.

At first I tried to wean myself off the dependence, but I finally caved and justified it by claiming that an occasional 100 or 150 yen was not so much to invest in my mental health. The machines' contents are like a grab bag of magic elixirs: one sip and I'm no longer the bumbling American who mistakenly thought she could grasp this language and is now paying the price in installments of humble pie.

I'm the fun-loving, quirky American whose only concern is whether to try a cold drink or a hot one next.