Scary things

One of our family’s favorite memories is of the time we were driving late at night with Two ensconced in her car seat in the far back. We were talking about creepy things when suddenly then-four-year-old Two announced to the world, “I’m not afraid of nothin’!”  And at that moment, she was probably telling the truth.

Most of us are afraid of something. Spiders, heights, snakes, fire, all sorts of things. But most of our fears have some grounding in reality. My lifelong fear of going up in tall buildings has less to do with the actual altitude than with the fact that there’s not a ladder truck in the United States that can reach above about floor seven.  So, I never, ever, for any reason go above seven.

Not overly fond of driving over bridges but that one has more to do with shivers down the spine than any actual sense of incipient danger. This is not to say I don’t drive over them and I’ve walked over the Golden Gate and Deception Pass bridges, no problem. Why being in a car should make it scarier I admit is a puzzle.

I kill spiders for Mary. When our neighbor who’s blind hears bumps in the night, I am the one who checks out her garage or backyard. I’ve stood down a huge guy who socked a woman in a parking lot (I was pretty sure I was going to get the snot slapped out of me that time, but the police showed up) and I’ve no problem dealing with the denizens of Third Ave on the way to the bus stop.

Not a hero, but not a coward, either.

So, can someone please tell me why I’m deathly afraid of butterflies?

We’re talking cold sweat, run like a rabbit, squeal like a little girl, arms flailing, spittle spraying, back shuddering, unable-to-form-an-intelligible-thought frightened.

I’ve had people suggest a negative butterfly encounter in early life. Or maybe it’s because they’re so unpredictable. Or maybe just because they’re so dad blame ugly (I’ve a right to my opinion!). Of course, most people just don’t believe me. How could a grown man be afraid of something so harmless?  But sooner or later, they see my butterfly dance. And then they believe:

I am sore afraid of butterflies.

And I don’t know why.

 (NOTE: I may have made reference to this in an earlier blog. Can’t help it. It’s butterfly season.)