Oh, like you don't have irrational fears.

Well it happened. Just as I had assured you it would in the blog entry entitled 'The Meatball'; someone asked me if the mole on my cleavage was spilled chocolate. I could barely keep it together long enough to insist she read my blog only to then immediately succumb to the deadly combination of hilarity and embarrassment.

To the kind lady who nearly wiped away the suspect ball of chocolate – thank you for the laugh and introduction to my latest post.

Although, with that said, I have no intention of writing in depth about my two unsightly moles today. I feel their 15 minutes of fame has run out, which is why I’ve decided to book their “laser eviction” for July 9^th.

Same price; no scar. In your face, Dermatologist! HA!

Also the friendly staff promised me, because I had to ask, that the wait time is usually about five minutes. Again to the Dermatologist – HA-HA! 

I win. 

 

While anything involving a laser usually coincides with awesomeness, I have to admit that the appointment sounds a bit terrifying. On their website the procedure was described as “painless” but then after a bit more reading there was mention of a “rubber band snapping sensation”. Why on earth would they describe it as painless only to later mention the scary truth? Did they think that I wouldn’t read on? Call me crazy but last I checked being snapped by a rubber band sucks immensely. Hence my life-long phobia of rubber bands, particularly regarding those that are pointed at me.

I wondered if there was a name for such a thing, so I googled it. Turns out I suffer from ‘astihophobia’. Sounds serious, I know.


I’m also terrified of dead bugs and dead fish. The bug thing isn’t too much of a burden because, instead of the killing option, I trap them in a plastic cup to be released into the backyard. The fish thing is less than ideal because I have a huge aquarium and sometimes I spot, with terror, a dead fish. It’s even worse when said fish is stuck to the filter (*shudder*).  I then have to avoid the living room until Mike gets rid of it.


At least within the last couple of years he’s taking me a bit more seriously and now actually deals with the situation. For the longest time he would declare it as the “circle of life” and leave the disgusting, slimy thing in the tank for the other fish to dispose of….always starting with the eyes (do you now see why I’m so petrified?).


I think “circle of life” actually translated to “I’m super-lazy and also an A-hole for not properly acknowledging the gravity of your phobia”.

It’s called ‘ichthyophobia’, by the way. It’s very serious and I suffer from it. The only thing worse than my random, irrational fears, would be to not have such impressively grave sounding diagnoses to accompany them. A fear of dead fish sounds ridiculous but to say that I am a victim of ichthyophobia somehow validates my anguish.

So thank you for that, Wikipedia.

If it makes you feel better, you can picture me having sex

I remember telling people I was trying to get pregnant and thinking nothing of it. It wasn’t until people started mentioning that they were “trying” that I began to, despite my efforts not to, picture them having sex. Those who know this about me have suggested I’m a pervert. Maybe they’re right, but I suspect that I’m actually just like everyone else.

You can’t tell me that when you hear someone announce that they are “trying”, you don’t picture them having sex. If you haven’t, after reading this post you will certainly start. To that I say I’m sorry, and also you’re welcome (ha!).

I wish I could control the images that cycle through my imagination (trust me, I really wish I could). Instead I have to try my best to conceal a grimace as I imagine, against both my will and better judgement, the bedroom dynamics that ensue between certain individuals. It’s not my fault; they’re the ones who offered up information about their sex lives, essentially forcing me to picture them doing it.

Basically saying that you’re trying to get pregnant is a discreet way of saying “yes, (insert name here) and I are having sex all the time. And, as I’m sure you’re currently imagining, by all the time, I mean quite literally ALL THE TIME.”

It goes without saying; there are some people who you really just don’t want to picture naked, let alone doing it. Sometimes when I’m at the gym I accidentally imagine that the red, panting, sweaty people around me probably look and sound exactly like they do when they’re having sex. It’s an awful thing. I usually have to leave at that point.

So I guess that definitely means I’m some variation of pervert. Don’t judge though, because you probably are too. Let’s be real.

If you disagree with that, why do you suppose that literally all I’ve been hearing from my female friends is how I MUST read Fifty Shades of Grey? Obviously sex is what’s on everyone’s mind.

Hence the mental images I’m left trying desperately to push out of the way with something (anything) else. So what am I left with? Fifty F**king Shades of Grey. I have no choice but to read it. Either that or I'll have to fake my way through discussions about said novel, just to avoid feeling left out. It's everywhere!

It’s become the book that unsuspecting young men have been buying for their Moms on Mother's Day only later to realize, with horror, that it’s actually a raunchy book of delicious lady-porn. To the mothers who answered with that book title when asked what they’d like for Mother's Day (I know you’re out there), I applaud you. Hilarious! If you ask me, the looks on their faces when they discovered what they actually bought for their mothers would be the best gift ever. Again, I realize that my humour is a bit left of centre but you have to admit that would be a great anecdote at the next dinner party. And really, what’s a comedic anecdote without someone dying of embarrassment?

Anyway I had to see what all the fuss was regarding this book. So I went to Coles and skimmed the shelves as inconspicuously as possible in hopes of acquiring my very own copy. Obviously I couldn’t find it. I was then directed to the obnoxiously large display with what I’m guessing harboured about ten thousand copies. Who would have thought to check the entrance of the store? What a stupid place to put a display you want people to notice (Clearly ineffective advertising).

So I picked up a copy, flipped it over, immediately decided that seventeen dollars was way too much to spend on a paperback, and shelved it.

I left the store. Then left the mall. Got in my van, and drove home.

Later that evening I was once again filled with deep regret (you’ll recall the first time was when I was too frugal to justify the removal of two moles). I’m starting to think I might have a problem.

When I explained to Mike why I came home empty-handed, we agreed that my rationale made absolutely no sense. I would have happily paid twelve dollars, but not a damn cent more. Seventeen dollars was just out of the question. I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s probably best to delve into the depths of my brand of crazy another time. For now I’ll just vow to myself and whoever might be reading that in the future I will definitely spend the extra cash on porn. Sorry, I mean “erotica”. You know, should the opportunity present itself.

On a side note, to all the couples out there trying to conceive: while I can’t promise that I’ll stop picturing you having sex when you talk about how hard you’ve been “trying” (etc.), what I can tell you is that you might want to consider being a part of the “fifty shades of grey baby-boom”. Oh yes, apparently this is something. According to the Mommies that I drink afternoon wine with while our kids play, uteruses everywhere have hung their little glowing “no vacancy” signs, and it’s all thanks to Mr. Grey.

I don’t care how many times I hear people insist that despite the ovulation kits, thermometer, and “remember to have sex tonight” written on the calendar, trying to conceive is still a romantic and enjoyable experience; I’m just not buying it. At least this book has officially, in the words of Justin Timberlake, brought sexy back.

So there you go; it’s worth the extra five bucks.