Monday, March 15, 2010
 home alone
I'd be lying if I said I don't become a little bit paranoid when left to my own devices for too long. I blame my mom (sorry mom) for instilling in me fear of just about every situation as a child. Going into the ocean above my knees, playing outside after a thunderstorm, handling any form of small, round object in a moving vehicle (y'know, 'cause it could roll under the brake peddle, hindering the drivers' ability to stop the automobile); these are just a few of the activities that, even now, give me pause due to years of warnings.
It's no surprise, then, that an irrational fear of home invaders (both human and animal) plagues me in my adult life. After all, my mother used to claim that if I did not do some chore that she had asked me to do, gypsies were going to come steal me in my sleep. This one wasn't so much an actual warning as a really good threat, but it all sounds the same when you're five. I've grown out of thinking that gypsies are out to get me, but I'm not sold on the idea that some guy doesn't want to steal my crap. This one's partially based on multiple experiences with my friend Ben, who has had his stuff stolen from his car on numerous occasions upon which I was present. Maybe God just doesn't like Ben - or thieves really do - but it freaks me out nonetheless.
I check that everything's locked at least five times before going to bed. My memory's not the greatest in the world, and I'm perpetually terrified that my memory of locking the door is actually a memory of doing it the night before, leaving me completely vulnerable to attack. I don't even want to go into the anxiety that bubbles up in me as I approach the front door to lock it. Irrational fear #572: Looking out a window and seeing someone else looking back. If it weren't for the pane of glass right next to the door, I could go about my evening business with relatively low stress (not to mention the fact that I could look through the peephole to check for door-to-door salesmen and JWs when the doorbell rings, while simultaneously keeping up the guise of not being home). I wonder if anyone sells long, thin curtains... or wants to make me one.
Anyway, the past several nights have been tricky. Falling asleep when you're in a constant state of fight-or-flight mode isn't all that easy. As it turns out, brainstorming your various escape routes and locating all household items that could be used as weapons actually makes you MORE on-edge than resigning yourself to an uncertain fate. File that one away under "good to know."
The dog has been helpful. He has foregone his usual favorite sleeping spot on the other side of the room for the blanket under my bedside table. I'm pretty sure he's protecting me, and I love him for it.
The TV has also done its part. I am not ashamed to admit that I watched the final three episodes of Hannah Montana last night as I drifted to sleep. Or at least I thought I watched the final three. Turns out they lied to me. There's another season coming in the summer. Why must you toy with my emotions, Disney Channel? Okay, but secretly, I'm kind of glad. I was really going to miss Miley and the gang.
But despite Gaucho's and Hannah's best efforts, I'm counting down the minutes until that knight in shining armor of mine comes home and gives me that warm sense of security we know as "safety in numbers."
And Buzz, I'm going through all your private stuff. You'd better come out and pound me.