Take, for instance, my fear of mimes (not clowns – they’re hilarious – mimes). Those guys really creep me out. I can ramble off a list of perfectly plausible reasons why those mum morons don’t get within a trapeze swing distance of me. For starters, they don’t utter a word, ever – at all. You know anybody that never speaks, out of sheer will, is up to no fucking good. Seriously, I would last all of two minutes before I’d be ready to blow. Furthermore, they paint their face glow-in-the-dark white (I’m pretty pasty myself, but not by choice) just to intimidate others into submission and clandestine adventures. However, I think it’s their herky jerky movements that petrify me the most. You just never know when one of those mute masochists is going to duck right or bob to the left suddenly while throwing their hands up in your face stopping just short of your nose like there is an imaginary piece of 1/16 inch thick glass separating the two of you. I’m just talking from experience and let me tell you - that mime had it coming!
A popular childhood fear is that there is a macabre monster hiding under your bed. Usually, somewhere between age six and college-age, that fear falls to the wayside, only to never be thought of again. Hell no, not with me. If anything, it is more prevalent now more than ever (schizophrenia?). Naturally, with the fifty gallons or so of water I drink each day, I have to awaken at least once (sometimes 2 or 3 times) during the night to relieve myself (sorry, but this is extremely relevant to the story). That being said, it’s always a challenge for me getting in and out of bed in the pitch dark room without severely crippling myself. I poise myself onto the edge of the bed and jump off far enough away so that the hobgoblin lurking under my bed has no chance in hell at grabbing my ankles and pulling me into the abyss. Now the journey back into bed is a little trickier, because sometimes, unbeknownst to me, my husband will shift positions in the minute or two while I’m gone. Therefore, unfortunately for him, he has been ever-so-rudely awakened by an unprepared for body slam when I hurl myself back into bed (at least I haven’t ruptured his spleen anymore since I’ve lost weight).
However, one of my most asinine fears is revolving doors. Are you coming or going, going or coming, or just going on some sick, free ride (see aforementioned Tilt-A-Hurl story)? I mean, really are these sadistic things even necessary? I think their sole purpose is to inflict bodily harm. I’m convinced they were invented by some bonkers bulimic who got tired of sticking their fingers down their throat to induce vomiting. Seriously, I’d love to see statistics on how many people throughout the years have gotten injured or even killed by those things. I’ve almost lost arms, legs, my head and a ridiculously cute Coach purse to those doors from hell (I was most upset about the purse, mind you). Not to mention the time that my skirt got stuck in the revolving door as I was leaving a show down on Playhouse Square years ago. That fucker ripped all the way up to my crotch and I had to walk the whole 6 blocks to the car (too cheap for valet) looking like Pretty Woman (minus the pretty). It was either that or wait on the corner for my date to go get the car (although, I could have used the extra money). I recommend if those demon doors are allowed to still be in use, they should at least post speed limits for them. Like no more than two rotations per minute or something. Maybe I should petition Congress about the downsides of these derelict doors? Better yet, start a Facebook group (would reach more people) rallying for their demise.
You see, I am not afraid to admit my fears, as absurd as they may be. I actually have many more but since this is a blog, not a book – I shouldn’t expound too much. Truth is, I’m not frightened by stuff I probably should be like fire, deadly diseases, jumping from tall structures, or what people think of me (this includes you). So judge away…I’m not afraid…
