Monday, February 06, 2006

"Fear itself", nothin'.

I awoke this past weekend in the middle of the night when the screen door on the back of our apartment became the wind’s plaything. It sounded like gunfire each time door met door jam, and of course, in my mind, that meant aliens were attacking. Al Qaeda was taking over. The world was all at once on fire, sinking fast, and being mauled by rabid bears.

I woke up the rest of the way, let my heart slow from hummingbird speed, and shuffled through the kitchen so I could latch the back door shut.

Now, I’m a rational person, but on the short walk from bed side to back hall, it’s impressive how many worst case scenarios your mind will wander toward in such a short time. Rabid bears don’t seem all that silly when you’re walking through the dark in your skivvies and you have exactly zero bear traps within reach. Luckily, I cracked open the door to the back hall and saw that the door to the yard was closed and dead bolted. But I could also see that the basement door (which, at that moment, was known as the Portal to Hell) was open.

Before I walked down the dark (and evil!) stairway, I almost grabbed a meat cleaver. I didn’t. It was too cliché even for my over-active imagination. Though in retrospect, I wish I had taken it. I mean, when else am I going to use a meat cleaver if not for itchy and scratchy-esque self-protection? Certainly not for cooking.

As you might expect (unless you thought everything up until now was foreshadowing) I shut both the basement door and the outer screen door without incident. Then I went back to bed and tried to convince myself that I didn’t just lock the bad guys in the basement, delaying the inevitable bear-mauling until I had to get to the beer fridge.

1 comment:

Scott said...

There were nights when I was sleeping alone in the Connecticut house during the early renovations when I slept with one hand around a hammer. House sounds FREAK me out when I'm alone late at night. The voices in my head don't help much either.