a fear

so i don't know when this started - maybe landing in indy in the middle of a thunderstorm, maybe on september 11, but i have turned into a really bad flyer.

i love airports. i love the hustle, the controlled (for the most part) chaos. i love watching planes land and take off. i know there's a theorem to it all, but it completely mystifies me that we've figured out a way to get a piece of metal that ways thousands of tons off the ground and keep it in the air for hours and hours. i could do nothing all day except watch planes land and take off, especially jumbo jets, because apparently i'm a five year old boy. but i hate flying. i hate take off the most, that horrible feeling watching the ground slowly float away, as the plane shakes for the first time going up in the clouds. i hate the silence as the plane is descending, and then the sudden pops as gadgets and mechanics start working to get the plane on the ground. i hate the unknown of it all, the sheer hopelessness and helplessness if anything went wrong. and i hate - i really hate - how even though there are thousands of flights every day all around the world, i can't help but think about those 'what-ifs'.

maybe what i hate the most is i have to fly if i want to get to places i want to go. sure, i could drive to arizona...if i had three days to kill. but i can't drive to ukraine to visit olesia. i can't drive to russia to fulfill a lifelong dream of mine. and i really can't drive to china to adopt that baby girl several years down the road.

when i flew to europe last year, it was really scary for me, and also incredibly annoying that i couldn't stretch my legs except when i went to the bathroom. my dad, who flies all the time for his job, gave me melatonin, which didn't put me to sleep, but did take the fear away. i know i'll have to fly again, with fear in my heart and melatonin in my stomach. and for all the worries, it was worth it to see london and paris...and even more to get home safe.

i freak over fleas

i was rubbing my dog's white belly when i saw it, a tiny black speck, barely noticeable, moving, roaming for something. i squished its little body in between my fingernails and started freaking out - my adorable, lovable puppy had fleas.

i started freaking out, looking up all sorts of home remedies for flea medications until i could get to the vet. i washed all my sheets, sprayed my home with germ-be-gone (just to make myself feel better), and badgered the boy to shell out $60 for three months' of medicine, instead of paying less than half that for the store-bought version, because then we wouldn't know its ingredients if hamlet had an allergic reaction. i lovingly bathed my puppy in dishwashing soap (only the natural version) while whispering to him in my special hamish voice. i wished i could comb over every inch of his precious fur to get every one of those fucking fleas off of him. i found myself angry at those tiny bugs for invading my precious baby.

it was somewhere between this freak-out and the one i had at my mom's where i checked the back door five times to make sure it was locked so hamlet couldn't escape because my mom lives by a very busy road that i realized i was completely obsessed with the possibility of something happening to my dog.

my second thought was fuck. if i'm this worried about my dog, how the hell am i going to be a mom?

i come from a long line of over-bundle-uppers in the winter and extra medication when sick. worrying is as easy as guilt in my family; the two are close friends. how else do i know that i love someone? i tease them and i worry about them - the tried-and-true test of love. i see the horrible scenarios in my mind over and over, every little thing that could go wrong, every awful event that could happen. i freak out over fleas. how did i babysit as a preteen? why the hell did those stupid parents trust me with their children? i'm going to be that mother who hooks a webcam up to her baby's crib and uses a child leash when in public and calls the pediatrician over every red mark. i'm so messed up, i'm worrying about my tendency to be overly worried. how do parents let this stuff go?

i have a feeling it's a more "you learn to live with it" concept. which sucks almost as much as the worrying to me.

my first fourth without (a lot of) fear

i looked it up one day when i was bored, and it turns out i have ligyrophobia, officially the fear of loud noises. if i could add the word "sudden" to that definition, that would sum me up perfectly. i think i have it traced back to an easter egg hunt when i was 2, thanks to an old home movie: all the other kids went apeshit when the gun went off, signaling the start of the hunt. i fell to the ground, screaming and crying. since then, thunderstorms caused me to flee to my parents' room and july 4 was always my least favorite holiday. in a cruel bit of irony, it's my brother's favorite. jack is a huge pyro and used to stock fireworks all year long the way mormons stock food in case the world ends. every july 4 spelled the end of the road for an unlucky barbie of mine. my family would spend the holiday at various friends' houses, enjoying the fireworks, while i would be in the basement, crying and blasting a disney movie to drown out the sound.

this year was different. i went out to harrison lake, where my cousins have a house, and braved the noise to enjoy the sights. i did squeal a few times at the particularly loud ones, but for the most part, the simple beauty of exploding light was worth it. who knows? maybe next year i'll be able to watch them without my ears plugged.