There are different stages of fear. When I was 10 I stood on the tower platform at a pool looking down. The water was clear and nearly invisible. The fear of what my sister would call me if I turned back, however, was stronger than my lizard brain pumping adrenaline and screaming “this is bad; this is, like, gonna die bad”. So I jumped and what a graceful plummet it was.
Of course I was out of the water and right back in the line to climb up to the top again.
There were the fears of being alone in the basement. Or at a slumber party, shaking as I opened the front door to see what was making that scratching sound. There is adrenaline and then there is the shared adrenaline of 10 tweenie girls on a Ouija board high…
It was the cat. But, because I’d failed to turn on the porch light, all we could see were Puddy’s green eyes reflecting the inside light.
Do you remember that scene in ET where the impossibly young Drew Barrymore, squealing at brain rupturing pitch, runs away from the alien? Yeah. Like that only times 10 and instead of an alien, imagine a very confused calico cat that just wanted a little late night kibble.
The fears of unfinished math homework, of failing the biology final, of not getting good enough grades to get into 
university and become…oh crap, what will I be when i grow up?
Does that guy like me? Will I always be the one at weddings sitting at the table talking to Baba and Gido?
I guess these are all fears I’ve overcome or outgrown or looked at closely enough to see a smudge on the wall instead of a looming demon.
Maybe it’s having kids that does it. I knew what I got into when away from my mom and realized I would be much happier not knowing what mine were doing when on their own. Teach them how to play safe, how to think things through and, no matter what, that they were never stranded as long as they could call home.
Now I guess my biggest fear is becoming one of those little old ladies who is afraid to open her door. Who is certain people on the internets will steal her identity and money.
The other day I was going for a walk with my neighbour. Some man, a stranger, was lying on my front lawn, just in front of the fence. A big man. My neighbour said he’d been there for at least 20 minutes. He was moving around so at least we knew he wasn’t dead.
Always rule that out first.
I couldn’t bring myself to approach him. 15 years ago I would have marched up to him and asked if he was alright, did he need any help and why was he on my lawn. 15 years ago my girls would would have had their wee faces pressed against the window watching it all go down.
I would have been momma bear. I would have had my grand-dad’s baseball bat tucked behind my back.
Did I approach the man? Did I listen to that small voice of compassion, we are all people, perhaps he needs help or just a nap?
Nope, I flagged down a BC Hydro car I saw coming out of the next door parking lot. A very rugged, broad shouldered, clean cut, bronzed young man was driving. I explained the situation and asked if he could go over and talk to the man on my lawn.
He gave me that look. And I knew, officially, I had become that old lady. But you know what? He’s got the muscle and the energy and he heals way faster than I do. He can run faster and he can undoubtedly throw a harder punch.
So he can think whatever he wants. I’ve survived way more than he’ll ever know and I’m smart enough to stand back and let someone else take it on the chin for awhile.
Actually what I thought was, “Screw you, buddy”.