Call Me Crazy

          I think we’re all crazy.  I mean, a little bit.  For example, I have several friends who are afraid of irrational things, all of which can be traced to their childhoods. Here are just two:

          One of my friends is scared of eggs, because her big brother told her these are actually forms of chicken poop.

          Another one is scared of snakes to the point that she can’t even see a photo of one without getting hysterical (again, older brothers may be thanked for this neurosis). Here's a fake one, in case she's reading this:

          One is scared to sleep with her ears uncovered lest something creepy crawl into them (scary movies seen at a tender age are the culprit here).

          I am personally scared of cherry tomatoes.  Not seeing them or growing them, but eating them. I am convinced they will explode in my mouth and shoot tomato juice down my windpipe and choke me.  Even worse, this fear is confirmed by several people who’ve said, “I’ve had that happen!” This does not argue in favor of forsaking my phobia.

          Add to this every newly-labeled condition that comes down the windpipe, I mean pike. Someone who’s simply tidy thinks she has OCD.  Someone who tends to worry now describes herself as having Anxiety Disorder. People with messy houses think they’re Hoarders.  And a person who rightfully shouldn’t trust a crook now wonders if they have Trust Issues.

          I am first to agree that the whole world could benefit from therapy, but I think we need to stop collecting alphabetical letters that excuse our nutty behavior.  Let’s just agree that we’re all bent in some way—or several ways-- and admire the artwork of it all.  See? Doesn’t that take a load off your mind?

          Have you read Sisters in the Mix yet?  It’s about two crazy sisters who can’t stand one another. Find that comedy novel and more, right here.