Let's talk about FEAR. I'm talking about walk-downstairs-in-the-dark-when-you-are-home-alone fear. What is it that makes us fear our own home when it gets dark? Is it the nagging feeling that someone snuck into the garage while we were unloading the car, and we didn't lock the door to the house, not soon enough? Is it the fear that there really is a monster that lives in the basement and who tries to grab our feet when we run up the stairs? Or maybe, it is the fear that when we turn on the light we will realize that the faint glows we see in the kitchen are actually the eyes of the rabid coyote who came in through the dog door and is now ransacking the trash.* (*Rabid coyote scenario is regional, please replace with raccoon/possum/radioactive spider based on your geographical location).
So, with all these possible scenarios, why don't we just turn on the lights? Is it because then we would see the stranger who was lurking in the shadows, or we would know that the understairs beast is real? No. It is because we are lazy. We would rather risk falling down the stairs, stepping on the KONG, or ramming our toes into the chair leg than deal with the bright light and eye squintiness. When we are rational, we realize that these scenarios are the only dangers we actually face. Right? Wrong.
Last night I took the walk down into darkness. Given the fact that I am writing this tale, you know that I survived the "When A Stranger Calls Back" lurker/Ankle Grabber/Old Yeller-esque perils. But, there was something waiting for me that I didn't anticipate. Something which left me spitless. Something more terrifying than a frothing scavenger with camouflage and a foot fetish.
I scampered into the dark kitchen, feeling for the pantry doorknob with my hands. I knew what was in there and I knew what I should feel when I reached inside, into the inky blackness. I moved my hand over the familiar items until I felt the box. The box of saltwater taffy. I reached inside to grab a piece, changed my mind and grabbed two. Two pieces of what I thought were delicious, sticky, "sure-to-please" confections. I. WAS. WRONG.
In the dark privacy of the kitchen I unwrapped my sweet guilty pleasure. From the moment it hit my tongue, I knew something was terribly wrong. As the taste flooded my senses, I felt the panic rise. IT WAS BANANA. With no escape route visible in the darkness, I did the only thing I could. I swallowed it while frantically unwrapping piece number two. It was going to be ok. The second piece would erase the memory. I felt the fear begin to subside. I could do this. I. WAS. WRONG.
As I stuffed the second piece into my mouth, I began to smell something. The scent caused all the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end. I knew that smell, and it caused my heart to pound and my hands to shake. It smelled like anise. It only took a second before I realized what was happening. The smell was coming from INSIDE MY MOUTH. I was eating black licorice flavored taffy. If there is a taffy fate worse than banana, this was it. The tears gathered in my eyes, my stomach heaved, and I did the only thing I could.
I turned on the light. I spit out the offender. I stuck my head under the faucet. I fought to slow my pulse and take a deep breath.
I went back to the pantry. I made eye contact with the box and its contents. And this time, I chose peppermint. I went into it this time, eyes wide open.
And the fear was gone.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
Forget The Maybe
I originally wrote this for my Facebook page, but frankly, it made me so happy that I wanted to include it here.
OWNING IT!
So there I was, cruising home from work with the windows down, when what should come on the radio but "Call Me Maybe"- could the timing be any better? As I am singing, I notice the light is changing and I will be pulling up next to two other lanes of traffic. Now, I will admit that usually when I am getting my CR Jep on and I have to stop next to other cars, I hang back a few feet, but NOT TONIGHT! Oh no, tonight I was owning it.
I pulled up to the line, looked over to the driver on the right, locked eyes and sang my little heart out. In return, he cranked up his Five Finger Death Punch-esqueCMM on his radio dial, put his windows down, and joined me in a chorus of Canadian pop perfection.
It was beautiful.
It was beautiful.
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