With an abundance of time on my hands over winter break to mull over frivolous thoughts, feelings and goals, I began pondering one afternoon what my greatest fears are. Of course there are the typical fears most people possess, myself included, such as dying in a fiery plane crash, never figuring out what the hell I want to do with my life, and living in a van down by the river because I couldn’t land a steady job after four years at Madison.
Most chaps my age are also plagued with the crippling fears of becoming their parents. I, on the other hand, have decided to embrace the fact that I am slowly but surely turning into my dear mother. But I will save that glorious story for another column because, to me, there are far worse first world problems I could suffer from and I will opt for my old lady tendencies over the following exceptional fears of mine.
Adult Onset Acne
Throughout most of my middle school and high school career, I had pretty much flawless skin as far as blemishes go. Not trying to sound conceded, that’s just the way the cookie crumbled. Since attending UW-Madison, it’s been pretty much the same with the occasional flare ups. I can deal with a week here and there of attempting to find different ways of wearing my hair, scarves, hats, etc. or trying to convince people that face masks aren’t just made for skiers so that I can hide my third eye. What I can’t deal with is being a thirty or forty something year old, married with kids and giving a presentation at my dream job while my co-workers whisper, “Can I get some pepperoni on that pizza face?” behind my back. Plus, I kind of sort of always wanted to be a MILF and fear that having more zits than my 13 year old son will be somewhat of a turn off.
Inopportune Indigestion, Upset Stomach or Diarrhea… and no Pepto Bismol
My bowel movements have been something of a predicament all of my life. Too many times I have been struck with a fire burning so fervently in my gut after a night of drinking far too much Pinot Grigrio and margaritas or eating a particularly decadent meal—namely any meal ending with a dessert topped with cream cheese frosting. Luckily, more often than not, I am near enough to either a toilet or an entire box of Pepto Bismol to put out the inferno. However, I fear my luck will soon run out and diarrhea will come down on me with a vengeance during, say, my history seminar or one of the many charity runs I participate in that have virtually no bathrooms in site. In the first scenario, I would be forced to sprint out of the room in the midst of an intriguing discussion to search for a bathroom in hands down the most confusing building on campus—Humanities. In the second scenario, I would simply be forced to shit my pants and then do an awkward jog to the start or finish line— whichever has the nearest bathroom. I think the second scenario may be slightly worse.
Dropping a deuce on my newborn child
Rumor has it some mothers accidently slip a lil’ poo while giving birth. I’m not sure if this is a myth used to frighten expectant mothers or if there is some legitimacy to this claim. Regardless, if my baby comes out with a drop of feces I will, first, be horrified that my previously listed fear came true at such a meaningful and unforgettable moment (even more so now that I just shit on my kid) and second, absolutely refuse to hold that baby in my arms until he or she has been thoroughly cleansed.
Gluten and/or Lactose Allergy
Gluten-free food tastes like a dirty rag and not ending my dinner with a fat bowl of ice cream is physically impossible. I would have absolutely no desire to live. Enough said.
Becoming a gossipy, PTA mother
These chatty kathys fill literally every corner of good ole Grafton, Wis., and let me tell you, I got a heavy dosage of the buzz around Grafton each time I ventured to Target, Pick n’ Save or Form and Fitness to run off the obscene amount of Christmas cookies and Sauvignon Blanc I indulged in over break. It’s one thing to smack talk about your own kid—I know I’m going to vent my rage to my workout buddy each time I come home to my husband and children bitching about wanting dinner and a new TV with surround sound and over 10,000 channels—but I’ll be damned if you catch me gossiping about poor little Janet next door who got escorted out of the high school spring fling dance because she was severely inebriated… and underage at that. Or about naive little Billy who decided to toke it up during third period last week and is now suspended for two weeks. Who in the F cares? If it ain’t my kid, it makes no difference to me.
By no means is this list extensive as it could be. For example, I did not discuss the fact that I seriously believe I am becoming a hypochondriac. Say the word “cancer,” “infection” or “abdominal pain” and I suddenly feel a tumor growing inside me or my throat swelling up to the size of a football. While some (all) of these fears may be irrational, I am almost certain there are other souls out there who suffer from similar worries. I can only hope that these fears do not become so crippling I begin to develop full blown agoraphobia.
Have similar and/or more irrational fears than Rebecca, such as fearing an airplane will crash into your humble abode one day? Share them with her at alt2@dailycardinal.com.
