Perhaps a LITTLE Fear Might Be Good......

I have often been described as being "fearless" (and, in all honesty, I have self-billed myself that way on occasion). But of course no one is completely fearless, and while I have jumped out of airplanes, rappelled down mountainsides, and talked back to my mother while she was holding a butcher knife, I have my moments of paralyzing, heart-seizing fear. Just ask Hubby about the night I found a (very small, very dead) mouse in our washing machine. (Guess who NEVER forgot to close the lid on the washer after that?)

I've blogged before about my favorite quote of my mother's when I started skydiving.

"[Bragger,]" she said, "there's a fine line between bravery and stupidity. And I no longer know which side you're on."

Often people who learn that I am a cyclist ask me if I'm afraid of riding on the same roads used by cars. My usual response is, "Nah...I'm too dumb to be scared." It does sometimes occur to me when I'm riding and hear a car behind me that it could be my last ever conscious thought. I don't want to be morbid or dwell on it, but since I can't see the car behind me and can't gauge what the driver might be doing (texting, eating, disciplining a child, shading his or her eyes from the sun), any moment could be that one millisecond it takes for a driver to veer too far to the right and nail me. I guess one of the things that keeps me riding is that the same thing could happen to me in a car, and I refuse to be a hermit.

One of Hubby's buddies asked me a few months ago if I take anything with me when I ride. Deliberately misunderstanding him, I said in my best puzzled voice, "A cell phone?" He emphasized that he meant for protection. I didn't point out that in many states it's against the law to ride a bicycle with a pistol strapped to one's hip. Plus there's that issue of hauling all that extra weight. I knew what he meant, and I'll admit there have been times I've found myself on rural, almost deserted roads, and I've wondered what I would do if someone in a car (because I'm PRETTY sure but not absolutely certain I could outrun someone on foot) indicated an intent to harm me.

Last week I was riding, alone as usual, and a van passed me. I didn't even process it at the time, but the van pulled off the road and the driver got out, obviously approaching me. I didn't THINK I had done anything to irritate him, and we were at a stop sign, so it wasn't a case of impeding his progress, so I did what any normal, educated, thinking woman riding a bicycle by herself would do: I stopped to see what he wanted.

There was a split second between the time I realized the man wasn't just stopping on the side of the road, he was walking into my lane and toward me, and the realization that I knew him. But he didn't know me. I called him by name, said my name because I knew he would recognize Hubby's last name, and he pretended to remember me (but I'm still positive he didn't). It seems he stopped because he wanted to know about my cycling jersey. He has a landscaping business, and he was (naturally) interested to know about the fabric of the jersey because it "keeps you cool in the summer and warm in the winter." That's not actually true, but it does have wicking properties to help with the cooling process, so I told him the name of my favorite outdoor shop (it sells clothing and equipment FOR the outdoors, it's not LOCATED outdoors - just thought I'd clear that up, not to mention taking another opportunity to use parentheses) and where it is located.

That is just like Bo, to stop a woman he thinks he doesn't know on the side of the road. He's probably in his mid-sixties, friendly and outgoing, and absolutely harmless.

But when I stopped my bike to see what he wanted, I had no idea it was Bo. He was driving a panel van, for Pete's sake, perfect for abducting someone and throwing her in the back. (But the kid with him would have had to put down his phone and help him, I'm pretty sure of THAT.)

In that split second before I recognized Bo, shouldn't I have been just a little bit afraid? Just a teensy bit? And since I wasn't, is it possible that I'm taking the whole "I'm-too-dumb-to-be-scared" thing a little too far?

Where Did My Fearlessness Go?.........

I used to be quite fearless.

I learned to swim very early and couldn't understand why my mom had this stupid rule about not swimming alone in the pool at our trailer park when I was 5 years old. I couldn't help it if none of the BORING grown-ups around there wanted to swim at 7:00 AM. And why did she have them rat me out EVERY SINGLE TIME?

When I was 10 I had one of those cool bicycles that were popular at the time, with the high-rise handlebars and a "banana" seat. Just flying down the road wasn't enough for me. No, I had to stand on the seat with one foot and put the other foot on the handlebars. Only one time I got it backward and put my weight on the handlebars first, and a pretty nasty crash ensued. I'm positive it didn't deter me, though.

I climbed trees. I climbed buildings. There was a Boy Scout hut across the street from where we lived once, and it had a marvelous rock chimney that was better than a ladder. I could easily scale that chimney and sit on the roof of the building, which was where I was happier than anywhere else. One time I was sitting up there alone when two older boys climbed the chimney too. I didn't know them, but apparently they were fine-tuning their bullying skills. They perched themselves on either side of the chimney, the only way down, and said something about "that little girl." So I just calmly walked to the edge of the roof, jumped off, and ran home.

Another bullying episode was in the swimming pool at the trailer park. I was sitting in an inflated inner tube in the pool when this particularly mean boy decided he wanted it. He proceeded to come over and turn the tube over, with me clinging to it. I refused to let go, even underwater. He flipped it back upright; I was still hanging on. He turned it over again; I held on tight. No matter how long he left me underwater, I still held on to that tube. I think he finally got disgusted and gave up.

Of course then there was the period of my life when I jumped out of airplanes. Sixty-six times I jumped out of airplanes. Some were good jumps; many were not. I finally decided that if I couldn't be good at skydiving, perhaps I should just give it up while the odds weren't stacked COMPLETELY against me.

Somewhere along the way, though, I lost my fearlessness. Today, in celebration of my first day of Spring Break and a triumphant return from a weekend of bicycle riding, Hubby decided we should clean out the gutters. Our house is a split-level, which means that parts of it are really, really tall. We have a really, really tall ladder to reach the gutters on those parts.

I don't like the idea of Hubby on a ladder, not since he fell off one in 2001 while cleaning the gutters at his mother's house. I still have nightmares of that fall, especially since I really should have been holding the ladder. He might bear some responsibility in that he was A) wearing flipflops on a ladder; and B) coming down backward.

But the only other option besides Hubby getting on the ladder is for ME to get up there. And I bravely did so. Briefly. I climbed to the top and cleaned some of the debris out of the gutters, but Hubby grew impatient with my snail's pace and took my spot. I even climbed on top of the house to walk to the other side and clean those gutters, but I froze. Being on top of the house used to be my favorite thing in the world. What has happened to me? I'm sure it could have something to do with the fact that we now have a metal roof that is covered in pollen. I was never afraid of sliding off the shingles, but that metal roof is quite literally a slippery slope. And a slopery slip.

While I was on top of the house, our neighbor saw me, and he yelled over here. "Tell your husband I'm going to kick his ass!" That was rather touching and a little bit comical, since this neighbor is a bit ..... diminutive. I'd buy tickets to watch him try to beat Hubby's anything.

I'm not at all bothered by the fact that Hubby had to wind up doing all the cleaning himself. I don't think he blinks an eye when I do all of the cooking, dish-washing, laundry, and minimal housekeeping that gets done around here. I did hold the ladder this time, though, while he threw crap from the gutters on my head. And I made sure he had on sensible shoes.

It just bothers me that I'm not fearless anymore.

I Am NOT Fearless.....

Way back in the days of long ago, when Hubby was still working -- you know, last month -- he talked to a guy about delivering some firewood. The guy was going to deliver it on a Saturday when I was home, and he asked Hubby if he needed to call me first so I wouldn't be scared when he drove up.

Hubby replied that he didn't have anything to worry about, because in his words, "She ain't scared of NOTHING."

Wrong.

I have jumped out of airplanes, I have parasailed, I have rappelled off the side of a mountain, I ride a motorcycle, I have ridden a bicycle down a hill at 47 mph with Katydid clinging to the back, and I would bungee jump in a heartbeat.

But I'm not fearless.

Case in point:

A couple of weeks ago, I went down into the basement to put a load of laundry into the washing machine. Keep in mind that our house is almost 40 years old, and our basement is a scary place all its own. Hubby has lived in this house since it was built, and he hasn't discarded one piece of junk. Oh that's not fair....he once threw away enough stuff in the basement to make room for his '69 Ford pickup truck.

Before I put the clothes into the washer, for some reason I peeked inside. I don't normally glance into the washing machine before I dump the clothes in.

There was something small and furry at the bottom.

I pounded back up the stairs, wringing my hands, breathless and nearly crying.

"There's a mouse in the washing machine."

I cannot explain my deathly fear of mice. It's illogical, I know, to be afraid of something that much smaller than I am. And it's not a jump-up-and-down-I-might-wet-my-pants kind of fear. It is a gripping, PARALYZING, I-just-might-hyperventilate kind of fear.

Hubby just looked at me at first. I KNOW what was going through his mind. He was thinking, "I don't do rodents EITHER, what does she want ME to do about it?"

But he's the man. That is clearly a man's job. Feminism can go straight to hell. It is a man's job to get a mouse out of the washing machine. It came in our vows, right after "to have and to hold....in sickness and in health.....in mice and snakes...."

He stalled. He asked, "Is it dead?"

Hell, I didn't know, I didn't stick around to take a pulse or have a conversation or anything.

He hesitated just long enough that I flounced back through the door to the basement, muttering "Never mind" as I went.

I don't know what I thought I would do, because there was no way in a hot place that I was going to reach into that washer and get that mouse out.

Hubby did come down, the mouse was dead, probably having starved to death and wondering how he got into such a mess, and all was right with the world.

Only I couldn't stop thinking about what might have happened if I hadn't glanced into the washer.

What if he had made it through the wash cycle and I had come across his lifeless body when I was transferring the clothes to the dryer?

What if he had made it through that cycle as well, and I had come across his corpse when I dumped the clothes on the bed to fold them?

Or what if he had made his way into the pocket of something, and I didn't realize he was there until I was standing at my desk one day, talking to a student about active and passive voice?

It's hard to say whether I'm more deathly afraid of mice or snakes.

You know what's worse than finding a mouse in the basement?

Finding a snake. I haven't found one of those yet, but I know they're there somewhere.

Because you know what's worse than finding a snake in the basement?

Finding a snakeskin.

On the dryer.

If you'll excuse me, I have to go pack.