First things first: Are you going barefoot today? Now, onto the post:
Not a lot of things scare me, per se. A lot of things make me worry (like people not answering phones in a timely manner and my mom driving in the snow), but few things make me actually feel fear.
Elevators are one of those few things that actually make-my-heart-pound, hairs-stand-up-on-my-neck, frighten me.
See, when I was twelve, my friend (at the time) Emily, my parents, and I, fell two stories in an elevator in Mexico.
I mean, it's two stories. It's not that far. We weren't even injured for crying out loud! The worst thing that happened was that the alarm button on the elevator didn't work, so my dad-the-body-builder had to pull open the elevator doors by himself (yeah, you read that right. bamf right there) and then we all had to pound on the outer doors and yell until someone realized we were in there and called for help.
This happened in a totally timely manner and in less than fifteen (possibly less than ten) minutes the firemen rescued us, our ordeal was over and we were on our way to our (now totally free, thanks hotel) dinner.
And yet, seven years later, I still hesitate before getting in an elevator, because this time I'm convinced that it'll go worse than last time and I'll just die or something ridiculous. In fact, until I was like 17, I just flat out would not take the elevator. It wasn't until I was in Chicago and we were going up to the 99th floor of the Sears (now Willis?) Tower, that I sucked it the heck up and got on the elevator.
Yeah, I feel a little irrational.
What are you afraid of?
(This post was brought to you by Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop.)