the sum of all (my) fears
I'm laying on the couch with P. We're watching funny videos on his phone, or something like that. My back is to the TV, and I'm on the outer edge of the couch. P. decides it's time to push me off. My imagination immediately tells me, because I can't see the ground I'm about to fall onto, that there are dozens of knives underneath me, all pointing upward. I'm about to be skewered. So a blood-curdling scream escapes my mouth, and I hit...carpet. Silly imagination, how would those knives even get there?? I hate falling off the couch. Or bed. Or basically falling unexpectedly.
I also have this love/hate relationship with ghosts. It's kind of like I'm dying to see one (no pun intended), but if I did I'd probably pee my pants, and then never be able to go anywhere by myself at night. Ever. Before my mission, my favorite shows were ghost hunter shows. I'm not even lying, I could watch those for hours. And when my dad was around with a moment to sit in front of the TV, he loved them too. We had this idea that when me and my brother got home from our missions, the three of us would take a video camera and go ghost hunting. We never really decided where, but we were pretty excited about it. I would make fun of the girls that were always screaming and running, and we would be amazed at the voices and things the people had recorded. Around Halloween, the "haunted" houses and things that came to town were just fun for me. Not scary. Then I went on my mission, and things got a little more in my face, real, pee your pants. If you want to know the stories, you'll have to ask me in person. In a group of people. During the daytime. That's the only time when I'll tell it. But I still really want to see a ghost. Kind of.
Unknown beasts in the wilderness. P. and I went camping the first fall we were married. We went by ourselves. It was a really rainy, cold night. We were cuddled up on our air mattress in our little tent, ready to fall asleep. Normally, sleep when I'm camping is as easy as breathing. That night, however, was a nightmare. I kept hearing big footsteps outside the tent, and I kept imagining the biggest bear you've ever even heard of, tromping around outside, looking for food. All the food was locked up in the car, so it shouldn't have been an issue. P. kept falling asleep beside me, but I kept waking him up, knowing at any moment, that whatever was out there was waiting for us to be unconscious before it decided to attack. We both looked out the screened windows several times after hearing things, but never saw anything. We survived the night with little to no sleep, and when the sun came up, we left post-haste. P. didn't mention until later that there was a point where I had put my head under the blanket to try and drown out any noise, and he had watched as one of the tent poles had bent inward as if something was leaning against it. THANK GOODNESS he had the sense not to tell me while we were still in the tent.
Heights. But not in the normal sense. I can go rock-climbing, no problem. And I revel in the feeling of victory that comes from being at the top and looking down on how far I've come. But I live in one of the greatest snow states in America (the world? I dunno), and I have less than zero desire to go skiing or snowboarding. Negative desire. Maybe it's not heights. Maybe it's really a control thing, where I can't even handle the idea that I will be careening down a mountain a million miles an hour, with no way of stopping. Nope, nope. No thank you. This probably contributes to my hatred of the winter months. I don't enjoy them because I don't enjoy winter sports.
For New Year's, 2013, P. and I went to a crazy New Year's dance at UVU. And I mean crazy. Because it wasn't the usual Church-sponsored, modest-is-hottest event, it was insane. We had a blast because we LOVE dancing, and by love, I mean we REALLY love dancing, but we were making fun of people basically the entire time. Girls in tiny bits of clothing (keep in mind, there was like 5 inches of snow on the ground), guys in wife-beaters...need I say more? It was a sight to see. And hilarious. When we got there around 10, there weren't a ton of people on the dance floor, but by the time 11:55 rolled around, things started to get...unbearable. The sponsors of the dance (I don't remember now) had put a huge net of balloons on the ceiling to be released at midnight. Inside each of the balloons was a dollar bill. Free money? We'll take it! P. and I were in the middle of this suddenly mammoth-sized crowd that was pulsing to an intense dancing beat. Keep in mind, I'm a happily-short 5'4", so I could see over no one. NO ONE. So many sweaty bodies. Once the balloons dropped, the majority of the crowd converged to the center, right where the balloons were falling. Right where we were dancing. We were packed so tight that I could have lifted my feet off the ground simultaneously and remained upright. And all of a sudden, I could not breathe. I think my imagination said that everyone else was taking all the air, and there was none left for me. Other peoples' sweat was soaking my shirt, and I was ready to cry. P. became aware of my desperate situation, and using his hulking, manly, muscular figure, pushed a path away from the crowd so that I could breathe. We left a little after that. I was too traumatized to want to stay and dance anymore, but the whole night wasn't ruined. Like I said, we really love dancing.
Maybe this isn't the sum of all my fears. I probably shouldn't write them all out. They become quantifiable and visible, and I'd rather not have a reminder so tangible. Hopefully they're somewhat entertaining. I wanna hear some of yours.
I also have this love/hate relationship with ghosts. It's kind of like I'm dying to see one (no pun intended), but if I did I'd probably pee my pants, and then never be able to go anywhere by myself at night. Ever. Before my mission, my favorite shows were ghost hunter shows. I'm not even lying, I could watch those for hours. And when my dad was around with a moment to sit in front of the TV, he loved them too. We had this idea that when me and my brother got home from our missions, the three of us would take a video camera and go ghost hunting. We never really decided where, but we were pretty excited about it. I would make fun of the girls that were always screaming and running, and we would be amazed at the voices and things the people had recorded. Around Halloween, the "haunted" houses and things that came to town were just fun for me. Not scary. Then I went on my mission, and things got a little more in my face, real, pee your pants. If you want to know the stories, you'll have to ask me in person. In a group of people. During the daytime. That's the only time when I'll tell it. But I still really want to see a ghost. Kind of.
Unknown beasts in the wilderness. P. and I went camping the first fall we were married. We went by ourselves. It was a really rainy, cold night. We were cuddled up on our air mattress in our little tent, ready to fall asleep. Normally, sleep when I'm camping is as easy as breathing. That night, however, was a nightmare. I kept hearing big footsteps outside the tent, and I kept imagining the biggest bear you've ever even heard of, tromping around outside, looking for food. All the food was locked up in the car, so it shouldn't have been an issue. P. kept falling asleep beside me, but I kept waking him up, knowing at any moment, that whatever was out there was waiting for us to be unconscious before it decided to attack. We both looked out the screened windows several times after hearing things, but never saw anything. We survived the night with little to no sleep, and when the sun came up, we left post-haste. P. didn't mention until later that there was a point where I had put my head under the blanket to try and drown out any noise, and he had watched as one of the tent poles had bent inward as if something was leaning against it. THANK GOODNESS he had the sense not to tell me while we were still in the tent.
Heights. But not in the normal sense. I can go rock-climbing, no problem. And I revel in the feeling of victory that comes from being at the top and looking down on how far I've come. But I live in one of the greatest snow states in America (the world? I dunno), and I have less than zero desire to go skiing or snowboarding. Negative desire. Maybe it's not heights. Maybe it's really a control thing, where I can't even handle the idea that I will be careening down a mountain a million miles an hour, with no way of stopping. Nope, nope. No thank you. This probably contributes to my hatred of the winter months. I don't enjoy them because I don't enjoy winter sports.
For New Year's, 2013, P. and I went to a crazy New Year's dance at UVU. And I mean crazy. Because it wasn't the usual Church-sponsored, modest-is-hottest event, it was insane. We had a blast because we LOVE dancing, and by love, I mean we REALLY love dancing, but we were making fun of people basically the entire time. Girls in tiny bits of clothing (keep in mind, there was like 5 inches of snow on the ground), guys in wife-beaters...need I say more? It was a sight to see. And hilarious. When we got there around 10, there weren't a ton of people on the dance floor, but by the time 11:55 rolled around, things started to get...unbearable. The sponsors of the dance (I don't remember now) had put a huge net of balloons on the ceiling to be released at midnight. Inside each of the balloons was a dollar bill. Free money? We'll take it! P. and I were in the middle of this suddenly mammoth-sized crowd that was pulsing to an intense dancing beat. Keep in mind, I'm a happily-short 5'4", so I could see over no one. NO ONE. So many sweaty bodies. Once the balloons dropped, the majority of the crowd converged to the center, right where the balloons were falling. Right where we were dancing. We were packed so tight that I could have lifted my feet off the ground simultaneously and remained upright. And all of a sudden, I could not breathe. I think my imagination said that everyone else was taking all the air, and there was none left for me. Other peoples' sweat was soaking my shirt, and I was ready to cry. P. became aware of my desperate situation, and using his hulking, manly, muscular figure, pushed a path away from the crowd so that I could breathe. We left a little after that. I was too traumatized to want to stay and dance anymore, but the whole night wasn't ruined. Like I said, we really love dancing.
Maybe this isn't the sum of all my fears. I probably shouldn't write them all out. They become quantifiable and visible, and I'd rather not have a reminder so tangible. Hopefully they're somewhat entertaining. I wanna hear some of yours.
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