Fears and Phobias

As some of you already know, I grew up in West Texas.  Which is a very lovely place to grow up.  Except for one thing.  Sandstorms.

1935 Texas Dust Bowl Sandstorm

West Texas sandstorms can be epic.  That is not an exaggeration. I remember Spring sandstorms during many a high school track meet (you can stop laughing; I did not run, I threw the shot put… now laugh away).  The sand was so thick I would be chewing it. Literally. (Now I just “chew the scenery”…)

Last week, Lubbock had another sandstorm roll through town, dropping temperatures twenty degrees and increasing winds to seventy miles per hour, all the while engulfing Lubbock in an 8,000 foot high cloud of dust.  Momma said it looked like pictures from the 1930’s Dust Bowl.

...and the 2011 version

Now, while this was an extreme sandstorm even for West Texas, it did provoke a bit of time travel back to those high school days (in addition to the shot put, I also threw the discus.  I sucked at both, but at least I didn’t have to run.).  I mentioned chewing on flying sand, but I haven’t yet mentioned finding sand in every bodily orifice, including ears, eyes, nose, belly button, and, yes, derriere.

And in this bit of time travel, I had an epiphany — this is why I don’t dust.  This may sound oxymoronic, and I am nothing if not moronic, but hear me out: If I don’t dust, then I don’t stir up the dust.  Just like the top soil in West Texas isn’t bothersome, until the wind stirs it up.

"I will eat you!"

This excuse may not fly with Bitty, but that doesn’t make it any less true.  I wonder what other deep-seeded phobias I have lurking in my soul linked to childhood trauma?   Let’s see, how about that long-held fear of getting sucked into the washing machine that prevents me from doing laundry…

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