So I mentioned one unreasonable fear. Today I found another.

Food disposal, sink disposal, waste disposal?  What do we call it?  What's the right word?  Well, I have yet another irrational fear.  Luckily my food disposal doesn't require that I fill that bad boy up with petroleum and cause a static fire.  I fear putting my hand in the disposal.  This morning the disposal was making a weird, grinding noise.  I hated the thought of sticking my fist in that hole.  (That sentence belongs on an entirely different blog, wow.)  But clearly something was wrong.

Why do I question reaching in?  It's not like my other hand is going to reach over and flip the switch.  It's not like some freak electrical malfunction is going to throw the switch and rip my hand to shreds.  It's my mom's fault.  She warned me. OVER and OVER.  Be careful. you'll lose your fingers. Maybe your whole hand.  GROSS!

Today, while reaching in and saying a little prayer I found limes from last night's cocktails.  Those should be in the composter you loser!  ooops.  forgot.  But I also found a torn up piece of "plastic who knows what" that totally doesn't belong in the composter.   Risked my life for that crazy piece of plastic.

Glad to be alive.  Still afraid of the disposal.  Be careful out there, especially in the kitchen.

Is my irrational fear holding me back?!

I have an extremely irrational fear.  It crept up on me when I was about 35 and has becoming increasingly more present now that I am the big 4-0.  It's a weird one I tell ya' but I'm willing to share it.

I fear pumping gas.  I am certain that I will be that static fire statistic that they show pictures of on the pump.  You know the stick figure that sparks off an explosion at the tank because she wears fleece pants (i.e. snuggy pants) way more than she should.  And said snuggy pants are quite static-y.  Dog hair comes straight off the dog and attaches it self to these pants.  They bunch at the ankles because of the static.

So I have become that gas pumper who gets out of her car and touches her car.  Then I touch the trash can next to the gas pump.  Then I touch the post next to the gas pump.  Touch my car again.  Say a little prayer and then grab the gas handle.  OCD, Nay!  Maybe, okay, probably.

I have looked at the statistics.  The chances of such a fire or explosion are extremely rare (150 cases out of approximately 50 million fill-ups a day) but I'm still considering ditching the snuggy pants.  And not because they unflattering.  They are a fire hazard.

You all have been so kindly commenting.  Why thank you.  I love the comments.  Does anyone know how I can get an email notification for each of your comments.  I really need the instant gratification!  Really, I just need to know when a new comment shows up without checking in and trying to remember how many had commented an hour earlier!  Honestly.  How about I get a job?  Like a real job, where I have to show up in something other than my pajamas and just because it's 5:00p.m. I can't automatically pour myself an adult beverage.

Lord help my Narcissistic self.