Rasemaphobia

Why am I sweating?

There’s honestly nothing to fear.... or so it seems.

I’m standing in the garage amid gasoline fumes, and I’m thoroughly stricken.

Get it together, I scold myself while shakily putting headphones on. The radio burps out Jimmy Buffet, but to no affect. “Margaritaville” isn’t very relaxing when one doesn’t have a margarita. I never got to try one - now, before I can, I’m going to die.

I wince. I’m not going to die. Not going to die. Nope.

These are the lies one tells oneself before disaster.

With bated breath, I approach the cursed machine and will myself to get on. Jimmy Buffet warbles encouragingly.

“Wasted awaaay again in Margaritaville...”

Thank you, Jimmy, I think solemnly. Unadulterated terror makes one ridiculously sentimental, doesn’t it? As Jimmy deflects the blame of his actions, I’m on the seat and turning the ignition. It rumbles to life with a wet cough and a shudder.

I did it!

Actually, I hadn’t. The machine was on - yet the entirety of the real task lie ahead.

Before the seratonin can wear off and reality hits me, I press the vroom vroom pedal (for lack of a better term) and scoot forward.

I recoil in horror.

Obviously, I knew that was going to happen. Doesn’t make our acceleration any less thrilling. After six more horrifying scoots and four more oldie’s goldies songs, I’m in the yard. Time to suck it up and drive.

Hate this, I hate this, hate hate hate this, I curse, bumbling along the grass. However, the longer I drive, the easier it becomes. The sun is bright and cheery, warming my skin. Colorful butterflies dance in the flowers. I even find myself singing along to the radio.

“Every move you make, every step you take… I’ll be watching-HOLY SHIITAKE MUSHROOMS!”

There it was. The final boss of this grassy hell.

The hill.

My foot eased off the vroom vroom pedal as the blood drained from my face. The fear returned tenfold. Seriously, I had to drive over that? I wiped the sweat from my brow and steadied my breathing – I can do this... It’s just one dinky, little, thirty foot, 90 degree hill…

So I tallied onward. Unknowingly, however, I had made a massive error. I drove sideways to the hill, rather than up-to-down. Thus it was that, as I bravely ventured through half-shut eyes, the machine started to tip.

It started to tip.

My worst nightmare.

I KNEW IT, I silently screamed, I’M GOING TO DIE LISTENING TO THAT STUPID CREEPY SONG AND NEVER DRINK A MARGARITA AND THIS WAS A MISTAKE AND WHY CAN’T MY BROTHER DO THIS INSTEAD OF ME AND ONLY THE BUTTERFLIES WILL BEAR WITNESS TO MY GRUESOME DEATH AND LORD PLEASE SPARE ME-

As we fell, I slipped from the driver’s seat – thus triggering the safety mechanism and cutting the engine. Panicked, I flung myself from the monster and inadvertently kicked it... just enough to rock it back to standing. Disaster adverted!

We stared each other down – the machine ruefully silent, myself trembling and swallowing my heartbeats.

Well… I’m done.

I dabbed my eyes, spat at my half-finished job, and stomped inside.

I’ve never mowed the lawn since.

Author’s Note:

So there’s the story of my stupid phobia XD

Bit of a rough piece, but very fun to write! :D

True story. Embellished a bit for comedy (yay), but believe me... rasemaphobia is a legit thing.

~Cotton Candy