I have recently come to the conclusion that my life is totally run by fear. The fear that I am going to fall, embarrass myself in some way, die in some inexplicable way, etc., etc., etc. I look at some of the people in my family and I don’t think they have the same affliction. While my mom says that the reason she won’t drive South is because she is scared, I think that is bologna. I think she just doesn’t ever want to get suckered into an airport run. The woman will drive to Westchester Airport if you’re lucky, but if a cross of the Tappan Zee Bridge is mentioned, or God forbid, the Whitestone, consider yourself stranded.
While I am pretty confident in my driving abilities, the fear that I will somehow injure myself permeates my entire life. Every time I fall I break something. Literally. Both of these wrists have been busted in half. My middle finger on my right hand (which I had to prominently display for the X-Ray at a mere 7 years old, and honestly, the sheer joy I get when exhibiting it now is on par with what it was back then) has also seen better days.
When it snows and the streets turn into an icy mess, I am literally paralyzed with fear. It takes me a good 35 minutes longer than normal to navigate those slippery slopes. And by slippery slopes, I mean the flat 10 blocks that are between Madison and 36th down to 27th street. Last winter an elderly man blew past me as I shuffled my feet hoping for some extra traction. I was envious of his speed, but wondered why he wasn’t as petrified as I was. He was clearly looking for trouble.
As I get older, the fear gets stronger. I used to be able to fly with no problem. I was actually a calming, soothing, voice for my more anxious sister. Now I literally have to remind myself that thousands of planes fly every day. That people do this for a living and they don’t die. I used to hate the people that clapped at the end of a flight. Now I practically want to jump up on my seat, praise Jesus, and kiss every man, woman, and child on the plane after a safe landing. As if landing is you know, like, not the norm.
I won’t ski, skate, climb anything, go on rollercoasters, or swim with jewelry on (it attracts barracudas). This weekend I was with my bestie and we were driving (in a civilized car, equipped with airbags) up a mountain and I literally said, ‘Please slow down, I am scared we are going to fall off a cliff.’ Yes, like an old lady ... telling someone to slow down. I also wouldn’t go for a hike because I saw some hunters in all of their gear and was convinced they would think I was a bear and try and shoot me. So I guess you can add that to the list of things I won’t do … walking.
I am scared that by the time I am 40-ish, I will be so scared of everything that won’t leave my house (yes, scared of being scared forever). A real deal Boo Radley! Only my ass won’t be coming out to save some wayward children – hells NO, fool! I’m not about to get shanked by some freakazoid!
This fear better go away. Either that or somebody better medicate me, stat.
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