Fee...Fi...phobia. What's next? A fear of giants?

As my 49th birthday approaches, I quiver with anticipation, wondering what new neurosis will accompany the anniversary of my earthly arrival (I had to go rogue as there were no appealing synonyms for "birthday" unless "natal day" rocks your boat.). My claustrophobia is now legendary...beginning with Sydney and my friend Sarah stuffing me through the narrow passages of the renowned "Winding Way" of Howe's Caverns like Pooh Bear out of Rabbit's hole to hyperventilating in a tubing tunnel at Splash Lagoon to sobbing uncontrollably in an MRI machine, drugged out of my mind and gasping "Just...keep...going." I recently realized that I have airport anxiety. Not planes. Ports. My heart thumps like a tripped-out terrier every time I travel. And my fear of crowds has almost become crippling.

Case in point: Every week-end, Brad and I visit my parents and then drive WAY out of our way so that I can grocery shop in my little hometown market. "Are there no grocery stores where your parents live?" you may wonder. Well...yes. But I know where everything IS in my hometown store. And Brad puts up with this little idiosyncrasy. Actually, he puts up with a LOT of idiosyncrasies. I like to believe that he finds them secretly adorable.

Anyway, this past week-end, I decided to try and act like an adult member of society and shop somewhere that wasn't thirty miles out of our way just because I knew exactly where they stocked the Hostess Cupcakes. "Are you sure?" Brad asked doubtfully as I directed him into the Stuff-Mart parking lot. And not just any ol' Stuff-Mart. A Stuff-Mart Super-Center. We knew we were in trouble the minute we hit the produce department. "They don't have the glazed candied walnuts that I use for our autumnal salad," I whispered frantically to my husband, clutching his arm. "Is that what it's called?" he asked with interest, "Why?" "Because it has chopped-up apples in it," I told him. "Oh." he nodded, "Like our Greek Chicken is called Greek Chicken because you throw an olive in it?" I smiled. He so gets me.

I wheeled my noisy cart down a wide aisle, jam-packed with people. There were loaded stock-carts and employees everywhere, bustling about. It was re-set day at Stuff-Mart. "I can't find the raisins," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I thought we just needed three things," Brad frowned, realizing this was going to go bad...real fast. "I need raisins," I choked. He pulled me off to the side. "Hold onto the cart," he said, "I'll go get the raisins." Brad disappeared into the whirling mass of humanity while I clutched the cart. Across from me were industrial-sized packages of Poptarts. I waited for a break in traffic and then courageously dashed across the aisle to wrestle a year's worth of breakfast toaster pastries into my possession. Brad interrupted me before I could return for a lifetime supply of jarred banana peppers.

The candy aisle was a big mistake. I drafted behind Brad, clutching his coat while he used the noisy cart as a battering ram. His phone rang just as we'd managed to fight our way to the sea-salt caramel Ghirardelli chocolate. Glancing back at me, he noticed tears streaming down my face and yelled into the phone to our daughter Sydney to "Distract your mother" while he battled our way out of an aisle of White Walkers. "I'm calling it," he said as I de-escalated by the bologna.  I apologized profusely. I promised that I'd do better next time. Today was just a perfect storm of psychological triggers. Noisy cart. Crowded. Stock re-set. "Look," I said, pointing, "There aren't even any directional signs over the aisles. No wonder we couldn't find the raisins." Slowly wheeling the cart away, Brad began to head for check-out as I protested. "But we didn't get the glazed candied walnuts for our autumnal salad." Brad stopped and stared at my tear-stained face in disbelief. "You're telling me that you WANT to go back to produce?" I nodded. Sighing, he changed direction.

"Stay here," he told me, leaving me on the outskirts of this vegetative wasteland. He dove in, fighting the current of customers for my nuts. If ever there was a metaphor for my marriage, folks, there it is.
He returned with a selection for my inspection where we encountered yet another one of my adorable little idiosyncrasies: My inability to make a decision. I was paralyzed with indecisiveness. Glazed walnuts, almonds, and pecans smattered with dried pomegranate seeds? Cashews, almonds and cranberries? Pistachios, pine-nuts, and dried cherries? Brad immediately realized his mistake but it was too late. "Let's try process of elimination," he suggested. "Which one DON'T you want?" I struggled to think through my veil of vapidness. "You don't like cherries," I suddenly remembered. Brad tossed one bag back on the shelf. Slowly, I parred down the rest of my choices. "I don't know if you'd like pomegranate seeds," I vacillated. Brad suddenly remembered that eating dried pomegranate seeds was on his bucket list. There! Whew! We did it!

We finally made it back to the van where I dissolved in tears...repressed stress streaming down my face...When the storm passed, we sat there silently for a moment. "I'll do better next time," I vowed. "You know, thirty miles really isn't all that far out of our way," Brad told me, "It's actually a nice drive." I smiled. He so gets me.