Irrational fears

Okay. So, listen here. I have a LOT of fears. More than the average wanker. I am afraid of so many, many items of remote interest and/or concern. My own shadow is at the top of the list and I’m mad as hell and not gonna take it anymore! It’ll resurface again in 10 minutes.

Here are about 7, 8 or 12 things that I am severely and morbidly afraid of. Can we just assume that halitosis is a given?

FLYING – I flied and I boarded and disembarked and I lugged luggage to the ticket counter and I lounged and exhaled.  When I was 25. When I turned 26, I developed hysteria, became clouded with paralyzingly paranoia, my larynx became infested with debilitating fears and possibly winged spiders and I panicked. The type of unsolicited advice that pro-flying jerks love to offer to us non-flying wimps is to make very intensive and disparaging remarks like: “Flying is not my favorite either, but if you want to travel, you have to do it!” Really, Bozo? No the hell I don’t. Oh, you don’t like to fly, jerky? Well, try gnawing on your index finger like a widdling stick while trying to manage your heavy heart palpitations and probably urinating on yourself for fear of plummeting from the sky a million miles a second, while sober. Here’s a little illustration that I have put together for my fans. Pay attention, Dan! Here I am, just lounging nervously on the top of the plane barracks, absolutely non-suspecting, and 100% profiling. The future looks bleak.

I would almost swear that if I wasn
I would almost swear that if I wasn’t sporting this special Lumberjack look, things would be just fine…

Damn. And then, this always happens:

I would probably have better balance if I were a lumberjack, but then again, I think that would be a drop in the bucket. A big drop.
I would probably have better balance if I were a lumberjack, but then again, I think that would be a drop in the bucket. A hard drop.

PUBLIC SPEAKING – So, that royally sucks. I’ve touched on this topic in a previous investigative reporting blog post stint a few blogs ago. In case you are not one of my 3 loyal readers, you can find it here!  Who is a socially incompetent nutcase? This girl. I don’t know if my readers have ever been employed, but on the off chance that you have been, maybe you can relate to this: You know how when sometimes at mandatory monthly meetings, or maybe training sessions that include people from different departments, and the helpful and gregariously constipated facilitator feels firmly fantastic about going around the room having the employees introduce themselves and tell the roomful of 60 people your name, your favorite Scandinavian holiday, how many times you’ve traveled to the Bangladesh farmer’s market and the distance between your ankle and knee.  Now, this poses a great dilemma for me because not only do I own a sweet set of cankles, which can be super tricky when calculating mileage because now I’m stumped as to whether you’re referring to American or Australian measurement standards. Oh, and because I’m going to drop. Dead. I can only hope that the introductions begin with the person sitting next to my left and ending with the person sitting to my right. That shit never happens. As unforgettable as I am, somehow Betty Bunghole at table 6 always remembers that “Tara didn’t get to go!” Thanks, future dotted eye random split lipped person. I really don’t want to waste my extreme “fight or flight” anxiety, nor my extreme code red, high caliber duress on just a couple people. I’d MUCH rather wait anxiously, sickly, and very impatiently for Beverly, the office extrovert, to stop babbling about her silly cat, Cooter, who likes to drink Pabst Blue Ribbon while listening to Bluegrass Music on Tuesdays. I used to have a similar situation with my cat, Feces, but she likes Reggae, only every so often. Sometimes that crazy B would crank up Tchaikovsky like nobody’s business, and meditate while munching on a dill pickle. Anyhoo- just how does Beverly keep rambling so comfortably and not only does she not realize that she’s already touched on the 3 bulletpoints we are supposed to talk about during our impromptu speeches, but also she hasn’t noticed that people all around the room are purposefully penetrating their arm flesh with pencils, just so they can escape through the armed fire alarm doors? Meanwhile, I’m still 17 people away from my speech. I think I’m going to shart.

"Is this thing on? And by "on" I mean I hope it
“Is this thing on? And by “on” I mean I hope it’s off, and by “thing,” I mean brain.

This is another topic that is hard for the Average Aiden to comprehend. What? Come on. Aiden is the new “Joe.”  So, most people are not painfully and unabashedly shy. I’m not the painful part anymore, but I used to be. But I still ain’t tryin’ to do this!  Hell no, no microphones ever! (ev-a for us cool peeps)

BEING ON TIME – That shit is ha-ard. People are at work wondering where I am, and I’m over here taking breaks, because I’m making lunches, dropping laundry in the washer, but never the dryer, and certainly, hell naw, never folding that nonsense, I’m cleaning up the kitchen after dinner, but only during intermittent texting and e-mail checks, because who the hell has time for all that the night before. My time management skillz have never been the first thing that I’ve featured on my resume. It doesn’t matter if I get up 2 hours early, which has never happened, I will still be late. I ain’t getting nowhere early. I’m Pinteresting and Facebooking, I’m delegating the breakfast serving to my 3 year old, I’m napping with my dog, and I’m tryin’ to look fancy. Because, girrrrl, I am straight up exhausted.

I suck at uploading pictures. But, what I do know is that I
I don’t know why I keep losing track of time. This bracelet is a sucky time device.
Stop running late! Here are some lovely time management strategies for ADHD adults.

FEAR OF MAKING TIMELY PAYMENTS. Let me tell U a story about a girl. Who once had a car. I’ll tell you the Cliff Notes version:  She don’t have that car anymore.

BEING RESPONSIBLE – I’m not even sure what this means, and I’m not even altogether sure that I’m not pissed off at myself for possibly even mentioning it.

GETTING GAS BEFORE FUMES – Doesn’t this speak for itself?  Here is Elsa, protecting Hoochie GreenDay Fishscale dude, barely holding up her frail arm, through her unflattering yet staggering negative 25 percent body fat, hoping to save Marlin’s life. #Eatagreasyfatburgersister. But, we’ll have to wait a while for that scenario, since Elsa forgot to fill up her tank, and the green and scaly douche goblin forgot to buckle up. Just to satisfy your intense curiosity of how this story ends, they break up. With his internet addiction, and womanizing life in the fast lane, she realized there were more fish in the sea.

Gosh. If only Elsa remembered to not have answered her Smart Phone that evening, then she would not be in the unfortunate pickle that she finds herself in now. Green Gill dude forgot to get gas AND to wear his seatbelt. Luckily, Elsa has a pretty sturdy arm harness that would work IF they were not parked quietly because they
Gosh. If only Elsa had just remembered to not answer her Smart Phone earlier that evening, then she would not be in the unfortunate pickle that she finds herself in now.  Poor, stupid Elsa.

Do you or someone you know use an arm harness as a secondary precaution for your passenger wearing a seatbelt when you tap the brakes and feel like their life is in danger? Neither me nor my mom do that to each other. Ever.

OF NOT PACKING FOR A TRIP FOR 3 weeks in advance – I am seriously afraid to take a poll here to find out how many losers, kinda like myself, that get to go on so few trips that they pack one of their plethora of 31 bags, 46 pieces of jewelry that I couldn’t even wear in one month’s time, every single pair of shoes, underwear, nose hair clippers, writing journal, book manuscript, writing periodical, tampon and various matching makeup and assorted overnight utensils that  they own. I’m sure there are millions of us.

OF NOT PREPARING FOR THE HOLIDAYS 3 months in advance – For real, who doesn’t do this?  This doesn’t even deserve the steam emanating from my fingers. Who doesn’t do this???

OF LETTING MY KIDS WEAR NEW CLOTHES ONE SECOND BEFORE THE EVENT IS HERE – Okay. This one might sound a little odd. But, hear me out. I AM OCD. Why would I spend all summer purchasing new clothes, new shoes, new hair bows, new socks, only to have the little shorties touch them and wear them and rub on them with their molecules and their dirty, funky finger follicles?

DR. APPTS –  “For 4 years.”  That’s the punch line to a story that truly just happened to me.  I walked into my gynecologist office, and asked the question, ” How long have you guys been in this beautiful, new building?”  I hate Dr. appointments, and I hate getting sick and having to go register or subscribe, or whatever the hell you do to get one of those aforementioned appointments. It makes me nuts.  I went to the dr. when I had to give birth. That is all.

RUNNING INTO PEOPLE THAT I KNOW – So, this is going to sound really weird, but I hate running into people that I dealt with in a past life type of situation.  Now, in my head – a past life situation could be anything. It could be people from a prior job, people from an old neighborhood, people that I no longer associate with in my current neighborhood, people who never lived in my neighborhood, but looked at me kind of wall-eyed one day – the list goes on and on.  I don’t find it abnormal at all to locate the perp from across aisle 12, pick up my phone, fake a conversation, push my hair down over my face and act like it’s completely normal to pretend like I’m having an explosive phone call with Mr. Schmiggelbottom (he’s the same dude that calls my phone every time we are getting ready to walk into a supermarket where there are kids out front asking for donations and selling tar and shards of string beans.)  I can’t tell you how bad the cringing panic is when I hear: “Tara?!? Well, by golly, I haven’t seen you in ages!”  You wouldn’t have seen me now either if it weren’t for me celebrating my sleuth like detective tendencies by planking under my cart in aisle 4.  Unfortunately, my ass is a little bigger than I remember and I didn’t just accidentally “slip on a bottle of lemon curd,” like I just told you I did. I had to have my 8 year old son “Pull Mommy’s legs toward you really hard like she’s a bloated Santa Claus stuck in the curse-d chimney.” I’m sounding more normal by the paragraph.

This is my brain. This is my brain while trying to concentrate, remember, or manipulate 2 thoughts at once. It
This is my brain. This is my brain while trying to concentrate, remember, or manipulate 2 thoughts at once. Jealous you’re not me?
So, to sum up: some people are straight up whack jobs. Most are not. I am not normal. I avoid many people. Here’s an article that might be helpful.
Squirrel! This has nothing to do with the literary itinerary that I have laid out here before you.
Squirrel! This has nothing to do with the literary itinerary that I have laid out here before you.

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