Looking Out: Phobias and the odd things that set us off
My cousin, Mr. Bill, writes to tell me that he pauses the television when he and his son Eric are watching a show.
He does this when some unusual word or historical reference that predates Eric’s adulthood pops up. Mr. Bill launches into an explanation before re-starting the show. He thinks, but is not certain, that Eric appreciates the education.
I know that Eric is a really good guy, and since there’s nothing in Mr. Bill’s description of his activity about Eric running through a closed door to escape, I’ll buy the notion that Eric appreciates being educated by his father. Good for you, Eric!
I do know for certain that if I were to explain all the trivial facts lodged in my brain to my own kids, the front door would soon be hanging from one hinge on a shattered door frame.
Having a phobia about homeschooling in middle age is understandable, or at least as understandable as any phobia. According to Merriam-Webster, a “phobia is an exaggerated usually inexplicable and illogical fear of a particular object, class of objects or situation.”
Perhaps everyone has a phobia or two.
My own mother had three phobias but only spoke of two of them. She was deathly afraid of bears and wolves. She defended that fear even though no wolf or bear lived within 150 miles of her during her long life.
“Our farming ancestors worked very hard to get rid of all the bears and wolves, so why do people want to bring them back?” she’d whine.
If I then launched into a lecture about diversity of wildlife and other reasons why I would like to see an occasional bear or wolf in my backyard, she’d run screaming through the front door without opening it.
Now that I put that on paper, I guess I have to admit she had four phobias.
But, back to Number 3, which Mom never spoke of.
Hardwood floors.
Mom was terrified of hardwood floors. She rarely visited our home, and when she did, she’d grab anything from a nearby table, chairback or shoulder and shuffle along without lifting the soles of her tiny feet from the wooden floor.
It was essentially the penguin-walk we northerners automatically adopt on snow and ice.
I know a woman who is so deathly afraid of bees (and she has no allergy) that when any unidentified bug starts buzzing her way she leaps to her feet, flapping her hands and spinning around, looking for an escape route while screaming, “BEE! BEE! BEE!”
“Housefly,” I say.
“BEE! BEE! BEE!”
I am not afraid of heights, per se, but I’m terrified of edges. Standing near the edge of a cliff or a rooftop? Ugh. “BEE! BEE! BEE!”
A man I know would not get out of the car to look at the Grand Canyon. His fear of heights and edges far surpasses my own slight aversion.
We’ve all known people who are terrified of bridges, elevators, ladders and needles. My own father-in-law would turn pale and have to sit down if anyone uttered the word “needle.” Another family member can’t stand hearing the word “moist.”
Bambakophobia is a great word to know if you happen to have a strong aversion to cotton balls. Trust me — I know. I hate touching cotton balls. I’d rather run through a closed door.
Apparently, bambakophobia is genetic, while hatred of the word “moist” has no known genealogical precedent.
I’m going to invent a word for phobias about running through closed doors and then explain it to my children. To be kind, I’ll do it outside. To protect the door.
— Jim Whitehouse lives in Albion.
This article originally appeared on The Holland Sentinel: Looking Out: Phobias and the odd things that set us off
