FEAR

by Linda Robertson

Fear. This week my cohorts and I are tearing up many angles on this "emotion."

So as I prep my blog post I ask myself, "What do I fear?"

Sure, there is an unending assortment of possible answers, from irrational fears {insert the creepy crawly or set up from Fear Factor that most squigged you out here} to the more rational and realistic kind of trepidation.

I want to talk about that. About realistic fears, the day-to-day dreads, the anxieties that govern many of our actions and force us to display our humanity…and since today has been an unquestionably dreadful kind of day, allow me to provide examples of how my fears have groomed my own actions.

Hold onto your hats, dearies.

I’m about to reveal some inner ugliness.

Today, in an admittedly extremely pissy mood as I write this, I fear:

1.) that the death of common sense courtesy may bring me to utter harsh words that, due to the extreme sensitivity of the most likely receiver, my remarks would have far greater impact than the insult that instigated the brusque speech in the first place.

I fear:

2.) that the sentiment etched on my personal moral compass which makes me endeavor to “leave a place better than I found it” will never, fucking ever, be instilled in others who really should (at the very least) clean up after themselves, and that these people who have, for example, made a myriad of RUTS along my driveway and through my yard as they retrieved the stuff they stored in both my basement and my rear garage—for months, for FREE—will not bother to try to fix said ruts which (in addition to simply being kind of ugly to look at) will make mowing next spring a craptacular chore.

I fear:

3.) that they will not even attempt to sweep the floor where all their stuff was stored either in that building or in my basement.

I fear:

4.) that they think my kindness somehow means that it is okay for them to create EXTRA WORK/HASSLE/HEADACHES in my life.

Am I airing dirty laundry?

Nay, say I. I am venting. And I feel better already.

That may be the vodka, however.

I also fear:

5.) that my liquor may run out before I get through this evening, leaving me to deal soberly with my impatience for the incompetence, ignorance, and general disregard for respect that surrounds me. (As in, this handful of people who housesat for me one weekend dirtied ALL EIGHTEEN glasses in my cupboard and various dishes and washed none. Oh they were “going to,” of course, but they ran out of time. WTF???)

You may be thinking that I fear confrontation. Not true. Though I am not a fan of such skirmishes, I do not fear them. I do not back down from them. In this instance, I am simply smart enough to realize that the afterward will suck exponentially. I know these people. And I know that hiding myself away, enjoying the indifference that an adult beverage can lend and venting via this blog from the solitude of my bedroom will ensure that the odd, if strained, peace we know as siblings can continue.

Unless they read the blog.

Nah. I don’t fear that. NOT ONE BIT.

They’d have to make an effort to be interested in my life or career. (Cue the laugh track.) That isn’t going to happen. So I’m safe. *wink*