You Mean You Don’t Worry About That Too or Reason #207 Why I Love My Husband
What? You mean that you don’t worry all the time that your car is going to blow up every time you start it? Are you telling me that fear isn’t common or (gulp) normal?
Well…I don’t know what my problem is, but I do have some unusual fears. These aren’t paralytic or run-screaming-from-the-room fears, but they are the self-talk-needing, get-that-thought-out-of-your-head type fears. It all began with lightbulbs.
I’ve very hesitant to change a lightbulb for fear of electrocution. (Wha? You’re not afraid of that too?) I blame the Girl Scouts for this fear. Yes, the Girl Scouts!
During my tender years long, long, long, long, long ago when I was but a little Brownie in the GS, we were shown a film (not a video…a film on a reel with a projector) about CPR and first aid. I think we were a tad young for such a film, but it was shown nonetheless.
The initial scene was one where a carnival worker reached up to change a light bulb on the outside of his booth while standing in a puddle of water. As I watched in horror, he was electrocuted, requiring someone to perform CPR and send him on his way in an ambulance.
However, to my young mind, this was an astonishing event to witness. The idea that something as simple as a light bulb and a puddle could combine to cause death was just dumbfounding. It imprinted in my mind at such a young age that every time I go to change a light bulb, I still look down to make sure I’m not standing in a puddle (yes, I do this in the house, even). It’s ridiculous, I know, but that image of the electrocuted carnival worker made me look differently at light bulbs.
Now the whole car-blow-up-when-I-start-it fear comes from heaven knows where. But it’s real as I sometimes find myself holding my breath as I press the starter just waiting to be incinerated into a crispy critter before my brain can even log what’s going on. I truly have no freaking idea where this fear came from. Perhaps I watched too many crazy movies of the week. I just don’t know.
The funny thing is that this is a fear I must have forgotten to share with AdoringHusband. So he was a little taken aback when I blurted out, “I hope the car doesn’t blow up” as we were making our way in the parking lot after a lovely Valentine’s Day dinner. I can blame the Cosmo for making me speak aloud my silly thought, but it resulted in one of the funniest conversations we’ve ever had.
“What do you mean, ‘I hope the car doesn’t blow up‘? Why would it blow up?” he asked in confusion.
“Well you know,” I stammered, “cars do blow up some times?”
“Where do cars blow up sometimes?”
“They blow up sometimes. You hear about it,” I insisted.
“On the news. In the Middle East.”
“No, they blow up here too.”
“When’s the last time a car blew up here in SmallSuburbanTown? When’s the last time one blew up in Philly?” he pushed.
“I don’t know,” I exclaimed huffily, “but it still could happen. Don’t you worry about your car blowing up?”
“No. Of all the things I worry about, that would not be one of the them.” he said flatly.
“Well what if someone put a bomb in your car? That could happen!”
“Why would anyone put a bomb in my car, for goodness sake?”
“It could happen! Like what if someone put a hit out on me…”
“What?!,” he interrupted, “Wait a minute! Why would anyone put a hit out on you, suburban pediatrician without enemies or vices?!”
“I do have a weakness for cheesecake. That could be considered a vice.”
“So a hit would be put out on you because, what, you bought too much cheesecake and didn’t pay for it?! Your cheesecake loanshark is going to blow you up for that?!”
“Well maybe would put a hit out on me because, well, I took the parking space they wanted.”
“Someone is going to be so mad that you took his parking space that he’s going to follow you, find out who you are, and pay someone to put a bomb in your car?”
“Maybe they’re angry and obsessive…”
“But to pay a hit man?! If he’s going to take out a hit over a parking space, there would be dead people all over the city!”
“Maybe the hit man would accidentally put the bomb under my car when it was meant for someone else. He could have confused me with someone he actually wanted to blow up.”
“So let me get this straight. This lazy and careless hit man is going to think you’re the target, not bother to verify this in any way, and then spend the time dangerously wiring a bomb into the ignition of the wrong freaking car!” His eyes were wide with incredulity. “Hit men who hit the wrong targets are really not good business investments. The guy would have to find another line of work!”
“Well maybe he just wouldn’t care that it’s the wrong car because he likes killing people!”
“Oh, well that’s different! So now we have a lazy, serial-killer hit man who likes to kill people by blowing up their cars even if they are the wrong target of the hit?!”
“Ok, so maybe he’s not a hit man. Maybe he’s a serial-killer, car bomber who will decide that I should be his next victim!”
“A serial-killer, car bomber, huh?”
“But why you? Where is this putative serial-killer, car bomber even finding you to decide you are the one who should be blown up next?”
“He could have just happened upon me getting out of my car at work and then decided that I was next.”
“What’s he doing in your work parking lot? Is he an employee? Do you work with serial-killer, car bombers?”
“Maybe he was passing by, saw me, then decided I was the one.”
“So he passes by, sees you, circles back, goes into the parking lot, pulls out his bomb materials from his fanny pack and gets to connecting?”
“It could happen!”
“Wouldn’t someone notice him messing under your car?”
“Maybe he’s really fast…”
“Oh so now we have the suburban, serial-killer, car bomber with superhuman ability to get into your funky ignition wiring with his bomb materials, hooking it all up in 2-3 minutes with no one noticing?”
“Well, it could happen,” I pouted. “All that is possible.”
“I think the likelihood of all that happening is less than the likelihood of your winning the lottery 3 times in a row and THEN getting hit by a comet.”
“Could still happen…” I grumbled under my breath. “And start the damn car, already!”
Happy 9th Anniversary to my AdoringHusband, a man willing to address head-on my likelihood of being blown to smithereens by a suburban, serial-killer, car bomber with mad installation skillz. For this and for so much more, I love you.