Admitting My Fears

Really 300xWith Halloween approaching, my thoughts are turning to fear.  For the record, I am not afraid of falling from a space station and drifting into cold, dark blackness or plummeting to Earth in a fiery death.  The reason I am not afraid of those things is in truth simple.  I am not currently on, nor do I ever anticipate being on, a space station.  I am not afraid of occurrences on a space station in much the same way I am not afraid of things in Narnia or monsters on one of Jupiter’s moons, nasty as they may be.

You might be asking yourself why I’m telling you about a lack of space station fear.  This, again, is simple.  It is because I write this column, not my wife, who is for some reason I’ve already proven illogical, scared of falling off a space station.  So, I admit it.  This is a na-na-na-boo-boo moment.  I’m proving myself right and she can’t dispute my claim or tell me to cook my own dinner when I say, “That’s silly.”  Basically, I’m not scared of space station stuff, but I’m terrified of my wife, and you are serving the same function my mother did when she took my cub scout troop to the haunted house.  We held her leg as she “guided” us through that nightmare, a mental scar I still live with today.  Now, I hold your leg.  I only hope you don’t laugh at my fright the way she did and if you do, then I pray you have better bladder control than she had.

No, I’m not too proud to admit my fear.  I’m afraid of clowns carrying butcher knives.  Oh, who am I kidding?  I’m afraid of clowns not carrying butcher knives.  Snakes on a plane, or in an RV, or small convertible, terrified.  I’ll even scream like a fourth grade girl during red rover if there’s a green snake in my shrubbery.  I am no stranger to fear, or shrubbery maintained by a man named Roger, but space station fright?  That is just silly.  Since I’m sure you agree with me, you wouldn’t mind telling my wife, would you?  I’ll just hang on to your leg until I’m sure it’s safe.

Source: David Swann