Here’s the deal. I am the biggest fraidy cat you will ever meet. When weirdo people drag out the vampire teeth and chain saws, this chick heads for the hills.
I’m not down with anything terrifying.
When I was barely 16, I accidentally took my brother to see a crazy scary movie at the drive-in. Even with the speakers turned off, I spent the evening on the floor board of my cramped little Gremlin.
I confess that yes, I ruined Halloween for my kid.
“Mama, can I be Jason for Halloween?”
“Who’s Jason?” I asked blankly because fraidy cats like me do NOT watch scary movies.
“He’s this killer guy ...”
“No murder. No zombies. No skeleton heads.”
“You know the choices for costumes,” I snapped.
“A pirate or a cowboy? Again?” My son whined.
“OK, an astronaut is okay. You’d make a really cute ninja, too.”
“But I want to be scary.”
“Nope,” I said. “Scary stuff is against the rules. We don’t do blood and guts around here. Be a nice trick-or-treater or don’t be one at all”
“Other kids will make fun of me,” My son said. “If I show up again this year in a lame costume, they will call me a sissy. Again.”
“You can stay home tonight and help your lame mama pass out candy,” I said nicely since I secretly wished he would skip the costume party. That way, he could be in charge of trick-or-treaters.
Passing out candy is high stress for me. Some of the older kids, dressed in monster attire, make me feel faint. A few times, I was so overcome by good, old-fashioned fear that I forgot they were children instead of goblins.
Afraid for my life, I hurled bite-size candy bars at them. I only intended to scare them away from the door, but I made a couple of the kids cry ... by accidentally nailing them in the face with torpedoed chocolates.
I might also be the only adult in America who has never seen “The Exorcist” or any other horror flick.
“Haven’t you ever watched a scary movie with a guy?” My friends asked.
“It can be very romantic.”
“What can possibly be romantic about doing a nose dive into the couch cushions and then peeing my pants in front of a man?” I growled.
“They’re only movies,” My friends reminded.
“To you, maybe,” I sighed. “But to me, they can cause heart failure or hyperventilation. To me ...”
“Alright,” my friends rolled their eyes. “We get the picture. You’re a cowardly bore.”
That is exactly right. And if I ever get the hankering to be tortured by fear, I’ll just turn on the news.
A former Southsider and an award-winning journalist and humor writer, Sherri Coner resides in southwest Florida. To learn about her books for women and to join her on Facebook, visit www.sherriconer.com. She also speaks to women’s groups.