Phobias

I have a friend who’s a bit of a germaphobe.
Before and after every meal I’ve ever shared with her she has to run to the restroom. “Washies” she says doing that shoulda putda ring on it gesture with both hands, you know, the one from the Beyoncé video.

Inside ladies rooms, even the swanky ones, she won’t touch the doorknobs, sink or faucet handles.
She has an elbow that is so dexterous it could tie rope into a Mariners knot. The automatic electric eye and the hot air hand dryer (which I can’t stand by the way, give me a fucking paper towel goddamnit) are her friends.

I once heard her freak out because there weren’t any toilet seat covers. She actually screamed.
When she begged me for one, her fingers grabbing frantically under the shared wall of our stalls, and I informed her that mine was empty as well and that there was full, unprotected ass-to-toilet-seat action happening right in the stall next to her, our freindship tooks months to recover.  Meanwhile, from what I heard, she went through an entire roll of toilet paper to protect her lady parts from those nasty germs.
But guess what?

I could see her handbag on the floor between us. Her black Marc Jacobs messenger bag just sittin’ there, soaking up the Ebola, and enjoying the view from the floor of a public restroom.

I wasn’t going to mention it, you know, I wanted to have a reasonably sane lunch—until she put her bag on the table. That’s a deal breaker for me, go figure.

A different friend shares a similar affliction. She won’t eat or drink anything that she’s not certain is…safe. Because the story she tells herself is that all food is out to kill her.
Restaurant dining with her is a lark. Such a relaxing and pleasant experience (that right there, is sarcasm).
The menu is frantically read and re-read like it’s the assembly directions for a FLAAGENHOOPER from Ikea. Even the small print. Especially the small print. “That’s where they hide the fact that they use MSG or GMO’s” she whispers conspiratorially across the table.

Like I care.
I eat any gluten-laden, GMO ridden, piece of warm bread you put in front of me. Real butter? Even better.
Oppps. Fell on the floor? Butter side down? That’s okay—five second rule.

One day at lunch, said friend was relaying the story of another friend’s upcoming nuptials. “Oh, that reminds me. I had better get this card in the mail TODAY” she announced, pulling a pale pink envelope out of her purse and dropping it onto the table.
Suddenly her hand dove back in. Soon it was both hands rifling around inside her bag, pushing stuff all the way to one side, then the other. Exasperated, but with absolutely no break in the conversation she removed its entire contents, piling it up beside her plate.

“Hmmmm…that’s funny” she mused, searching the bottom like a deep-sea treasure hunter.
“Ah, there you are!” she said, triumphantly producing a stamp.
One single postage stamp. It was obviously the lone survivor of a role used up long ago.

Covered with purse lint and flecks of tobacco, hair, the sweat of a troll, and who knows what else—she stuck out her tongue and licked it—placing it squarely on the upper right hand corner of the card. “There” she said, pressing it down firmly, pleased with her salvage mission.

I know my face must have registered my horror, so I hastily picked up my napkin and pretended to wipe my mouth, smearing lipstick all over my chin.

Although I probably could have eaten the stamp—I don’t think I could have licked it. Ewwww.

I have some other friends, a couple whom I adore, that eat super healthy, work out like beasts six days a week, drink alkaline water, fly separately so their kids will always have one living parent — and smoke.
Cigarettes.
I know.
What gives?

Fear of germs. Fear of disease. Fear of dying. Fear of life.
It’s all relative. Subjective. Open to interpretation. One man’s perfectly good butter-side-down bread, is another man’s germ infested trash. (FIVE SECONDS!)

It’s tragic. And hilarious. And we all do it.

Pay attention to your fears. What are you doing that is in direct opposition to what you say you’re afraid of?

Carry on,
xox

PS: I’m afraid of her bra…

Check your thermometers and change your vacation plans because,
HELL HAS JUST FROZEN OVER.

That is a picture of a GUN in my hand.

Don’t get your panties in a bunch now, relax, I’ll explain.

This morning my expert in all things gun related, paid me an early visit; while I still had both courage and coffee running through my veins.

My husband you say? No way!

His lifetime allotment of patience wouldn’t be enough to allow him to tackle teaching me about weapons. Although he is an aficionado and quite a good shot, ( I framed a target from the range that one of his buddies brought me. There’s isn’t a mark on it – except for a giant hole in the middle, where he emptied his pistol) we both agreed that Ernie is up to the task at hand.

Ernie is the guard at the jewelry store I used to work at, and since he is allowed by law, to carry a concealed weapon at work, he has to stay very current and adept with his gun skills. I have always been silently grateful for that, since my life was in his hands; and I’m ashamed (only slightly) to admit to having plied him with cake, brownies and cookies to stay in his good graces – so he would save me first.

He takes everyone (my husband, his friends, my friends – everyone’s friends) to the range for practice when he goes, and is a very skilled, thoughtful and patient teacher.

I’ve never gone. I’ve always declined because I’m scared beyond all reason.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve had an irrational fear of guns. 
I can’t look at them, let alone touch one. (Check out the old dog’s face, she can’t believe what she’s seeing).

If I even catch a glimpse of Ernie’s gun it makes me cry, so he never removes his jacket; even when the air conditioning broke and it was an oven in the store.
Yes, he’s THAT nice, and yes, I’m THAT mean.
I’m telling you – it’s irrational.

When I was in line at a fast food restaurant and a couple of cops were next to me and wearing their weapons, I froze, then I started to shake and cry, and I had to run out.
I wasn’t nine, I was forty nine. That’s crazy, I know.

Since I’m in my fifties I’m all about confronting my fears.
They are imaginary after all; just the stories I keep telling myself. A gun is plastic and metal, and is only dangerous in the wrong hands, and it cannot kill me if it isn’t loaded. Still, I must be shown ten times, that there is no bullet in the chamber before I will even LOOK at it.

Let me set the record straight, I’m no fan of the second amendment.
I can’t fathom why, in the twenty first century, we need the right to bear arms. That all made perfect sense to our founding fathers because it was the 18th century, and the only thing I know for SURE about guns is that their only intended purpose is to kill.

That always makes me say: I HATE GUNS, when the more accurate statement would be: I’M SCARED OF GUNS, I HATE GUN VIOLENCE.

That being said, I find myself surrounded by men and women who take guns and that amendment very seriously. They are well trained, and practiced and I gotta tell ya, if the zombies come, I want them on my team.

Another thing I know for sure: Knowledge is Power.
At this stage of my life there aren’t a lot of things I know NOTHING about, yet, I am completely clueless where guns are concerned, which has started to make me feel…..disempowered. That does not sit well with me at this age. I want to conquer my fears. I want to know how to load and hold and fire a gun.

There. I said it.
(It still makes me shake.)

Can bungee jumping and sky diving be far behind?
Yes, yes they can. Maybe sixties for those.

So… It’s time. I’m going to pull up my big girl Annie Oakley pants and I’ve made the commitment to go with the whole gang to the range on Monday.
That’s why Ernie started the aversion therapy today.
Part two will be Thurday. I suppose what comes next will be me holding it for more than thirty seconds.

I may forget to be home Thursday.

After getting all testosteroned up at the range, they have a tradition where they all go to Hooters for lunch – because the chicken wings are so good. I swear, that’s their story.
I think the sight of boobies helps them back to balance.
I’m a good sport, so I’ll be tagging along.
I’m looking forward, no, I’m actually counting on the boobies bringing me back to balance.

I’ll let you know how this goes….

What fears are you conquering? Have you waited as long I have?
Who’s afraid of guns out there? Who hates them?
Yell at me, talk some sense into me.

Love you,
Xox