I'm scared of a lot, and not even always in groups. Stuff scares me, but what really makes me soil everyone's underwear is the not stuff, and especially the not yet stuff. I live in fear of the hypothetical, afraid of who knows what will be. I'm constantly imagining catastrophes by the score then worrying if I'll have time for them all. Today's irrational fleeting moment of terror? Shaving.
You'd think that I would have some sort of normal concern about missing a spot and being laughed at by everyone, or about slicing my own throat and things going south from there. But no. There I was, besodden with Barbasol working my way back to cute, babe and shaving up a lather. I got towards the end and my ever lurking OCD insisted on a particular and symmetrical pattern of shaving. I acquiesced figuring nothing could go wrong. Cheeks, throat, ears, chin and then finally, approach the mustache in a balanced fashion, repeating left and right until my efforts meet smack dab in the middle of the philtrum.
Now when one shaves using the technology I have near my disposal, one must occasionally rinse the razor so the sharpest cutty-thing won't be dulled by layers of whipped cream and talk of insurance. There is also a tendency to glimpse up and evaluate progress, checking for those possibly missed spots which until now didn't faze me. I looked up and saw myself shaven except for a wonderful gray Hitler-esque mustache.
And that's when the worrying started.
What if, I considered, my razor were to stop working now and I was left with a Hitler mustache? I suspect that that would be frowned upon in a variety of establishments. But with no razor, I would have to go out to the store to buy another. People would see me in my not seen in a while whisker style. Or what if I were to suffer a surprise qualifying medical event and was suddenly indisposed position of needing help? The medical providers would see me as a man with a Hitler mustache and they might draw the wrong conclusion regarding my personal opinion of Hitler (Hint: not a fan). And what if, what if, what if I died right there in that space, in that moment. I keeled over or under, around and through and ended up ended right there on the floor? How would the police report describe me? "Overweight Hitler enthusiast"? Ain't nobody have any time for that. Not now and not in the future.
All these thoughts possess me for the 6 seconds it takes for me to rinse the razor and complete shaving. But that 6 seconds, every time I shave, well, that there's who I truly, truly am.