The other day, I learned the hard way that—despite the black belts I’ve earned and the tough-girl image I try so hard to project to the world—when it comes to the creepy and downright bizarre, all my kick-assery flies out the window leaving nothing but a 6’2” crybaby.
This epiphany occurred while I was watching Cowboys and Aliens with some friends. I was fine until the alien’s body opened up to unleash a second set of hidden, gooey, three-fingered hands. My friends laughed.
Me? I went apeshit.
I scrambled as far away from the television as I could, squeezed my eyes shut, and alternated between grabbing at my friends and slapping their hands away, all the while shrieking, “No! No! No!”
Not my finest moment.
My friends weathered the storm as best they could—letting me know when the “scary” part was over, and then scattering to the far ends of the room whenever the gooey alien hands showed up.
Now, besides, yet another irrational fear to add to my long, long lists of phobias, I’ve decided to add another weapon to my arsenal.
I just have to figure out what to say to the bank when “chainsaw-katana” shows up on my credit card bill.