My roommate goes home almost every weekend. She says it's not me - I don't develop mind-numbing body odor, I don't cook naked and I don't judge her when she does either of these aforementioned things.
At first, when she started leaving, it was empowering to know that I was in charge of my own apartment. For the first time I felt like an adult, albeit one that drinks wine from a box, not a bottle.
I'd stretch out on the couch all day and watch Arrested Development"" in nothing but a pair of cut-offs, dipping my finger into a tub of spreadable cheese and spoon-feeding it into my mouth. Or I curl up in an adult-sized onesie, suck my thumb and drink chardonnay out of a toddler sippy cup. Or maybe I'd light some candles, fill up a bubble bath and finally shave my legs all while reading romantic poetry.
But after some romantic weekends with myself, it became clear that I'm afraid of being alone - not because I'm afraid of myself - but because childhood fears have plagued me into my (almost) adulthood.
Little Ashley wasn't afraid of anything too unusual - dead people, aliens and anyone wearing the ""Scream"" mask, even if they were being pushed by their mom in a stroller. But, unlike the rest of the population, I never quite outgrew those fears.
When my brother wanted to get back at me for being the older, bitchy sister, he knew how to do it. He'd pop in ""Signs,"" make sure it set to a part where an alien was looking fierce and that ultra-creepy music was blaring in the background. He'd tackle me, sit on my head and threaten to fart in my mouth if I moved. This torture routine continued through high school, until one day I cracked the DVD in half. Needless to say, my brother dropped a bomb.
After three years of college and an education that informs me about real-world threats, I still shake at the thought of ghosts. As a child, whenever a distant relative of mine died, I was terrified for weeks and thought they were living in my closet and would eventually eat me. So naturally, when Heath Ledger died, I couldn't sleep without a dim light on, a soothing NPR voice to calm me and a large hammer to beat his ass.
Most girls would be thrilled that Heath Ledger was visiting after dark, even if he were dead and decaying. They'd think the experience would be like that Disney movie Casper, only with additional X-rated cowboy-inspired love scenes. Nope, not me - I was legit shaking in my boots. I'd wake up sweaty from sleep and wonder whether he'd bite off my fingers, skin me alive or lick my toes first.
This weekend, I was terrified when I thought someone was following me home late at night. I texted my friends, co-workers and school advisors that I was alone, sweaty and about to be murdered by Michael Myers. As a result, most of these people now believe that I text messaged them under the guise of being in danger, when what I really wanted was late-night love. This couldn't be further from the truth - all I wanted was some decent, no-frills-no-thrills deep sleep. And maybe some pizza.
When I told my roommate about my scare, she couldn't believe I feared mostly imaginary things but could, without hesitation, talk with complete strangers about my leg hair, ask girls I just met when we were going to have a slumber party and be BFFs, or rock a homemade American flag dress at a karaoke bar singing ""Born in the USA,"" even when I know my voice is as about as pretty as Perez Hilton is straight.
Maybe I can't sleep in complete darkness, but at least I'm completely open about my childish fears without worrying what anyone thinks - just as long as they still want to have slumber parties, discuss shaving habits and help me embarrass myself in various public locations.
If you're scared of aliens, Heath Ledger or deadly farts, e-mail aaspencer@wisc.edu.
