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Early
last week I was presented with the formidable challenge of entertaining
myself for an evening. To many people, labeling such a situation
as a challenge may seem a touch harsh. I mean, what would the
average mother of four give for such an opportunity? But for the
hyperactive, socially addicted chappy I am, a challenge it was.
I toyed
with the idea of reading a book, briefly entertained the concept
of washing clothes, but in the end I wound up lying prostrate on
the couch playing M&M oral basketball while trying to balance a
glass of O.J. on my stomach.
After
about ten minutes and a couple of chipped teeth, I found myself
unwillingly flicking through the amazing array of brain numbingly
boring banter and suicide-inducing soaps that constitute British
evening TV. But before I could say, "Love Thy Neighbor," I was quite
engrossed in a program documenting the squirmy process involved
in a middle-aged woman overcoming her phobia of worms.
The
show promised very little in the way of ball sports, not an iota
of obvious comic potential, and absolutely no possibility of full
frontal nudity, so the burning question remained--why was I watching?
And to this day I don't have an answer, but watch I did.
For
those of you who are strangers to the world of irrational panic,
The Oxford Popular English Dictionary defines a phobia as "a persistent,
abnormal fear or dislike of something." A clearer, more precise
definition you are unlikely to find. However, the egotistical nature
of calling your dictionary 'popular' is something that has always
gotten on my goat. And without my express permission, my goat should
not be gotten on. Ever. If I end up writing a dictionary I'm going
to call it the Oxford Fat Kid With Glasses, Acne, and an Unhealthy
Interest in Stamp Collecting English Dictionary, just to put the
wind up 'em. Anyway, I stray.
After
having my interest in the world of phobias piqued, I spent the next
two hours trawling the Internet for phobic related gems. And I'm
pleased to announce there is no shortage of messed-up paranoias
out there.
But
before I go on, let me add that there is nothing particularly funny
about having a phobia. I myself am a closet claustrophobic. Not
that I'm afraid of closets, it's just that I like to keep it a secret.
But now that I think about it, yes, being in a closet does provide
me with an all-new slant on claustrophobia previously not discovered.
My claustrophobia
can be traced back to an experience in my youth, when I was trapped
in a lift with a man housing sweat glands the size of Luxembourg
and the notion that dental hygiene was a chain of panel beating
shops. On the plus side I do remain relatively fit working on the
twenty-third story of a high-rise complex.
Claustrophobia
is one of the more common forms of phobia. However, aulophobia--the
fear of flutes, geniophobia--the fear of chins, kyphophobia--fear
of stooping, linonophobia--fear of string, and (my personal favorite)
zemmiphobia--fear of the great mole rat, are not.
Here's
a conundrum within a phobia: sesquipedalophobia. I'll give you a
clue. Upon hearing the diagnosis of their phobia, this person would
more than likely pass out. Give up? It's the fear of long words,
which also goes by the snappy little title of hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia--a
perverted piece of work no doubt made up by someone with a sadistic
dislike for a sufferer of sesquipedalophobia.
So in
a warped, roundabout fashion, watching television spurred me on
to learn a little more about a topic I'd paid scant attention to
in the past. It got me off the couch and up tapping at the keyboard,
but most important, it taught me the meaning of one very special
word, which I'll leave you with now. Yep, you guessed it: arachibutyrophobia.
The jewel in the irrational fear crown--the fear of peanut butter
sticking to the roof of the mouth.
Copyright
© 2000 Paul Dodson. All Rights Reserved.
Paul
Dodson is a London-based Australian Web designer who is still
looking for a cheap ticket home. His passion is traveling and
his biggest fear is public speaking from a dentist's chair in
a spiraling out-of-control 747. Visit his website: "observations
of an unimportant man".
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