Emetophobia? Say What?

I think I’ve mentioned here a couple thousand times or two that I’m a germaphobe. If you know me personally, you would most definitely say that hand sanitizer is the one item I’d choose to take to a desert island. 

It’s true.

I always try to play it cool, like I’m not afraid germs will jump right off surfaces straight into my mouth. 

When I first started at my school, I tried not to be the token germaphobe teacher. I thought I was doing well until our old (as in, not-at-our-school-anymore-old) counselor made some joke about me almost certainly having a black light app on my phone (We were in a really shady bus. I’d explain why we needed a black light, but I think you know). 

I remember thinking, “How did she know?” 

After some self-reflection, I realized she knew, along with everyone else who’s come into contact with me, because I put on hand sanitizer precisely 537 times a day. 

I really thought I was stealth about my hand sanitizer use.

Also, I’m that person sending death glares to adult you-should-know-better creeps who don’t cover their mouths. 

Additionally:

1. I have to be minutes from death before you see me in an ER.

2. If someone close to me looks like they’ll be sick, I’ll run for the hills/call for an adultier adult/point to somewhere far away from me, indicating that’s where I’d like them to be.

3. I use my shirt to open doors with questionable handles. 

4. I ask my boyfriend if he washed with soap after he uses the bathroom. 

5. I’ve been known to put hand sanitizer in my nose if forced to breath in someone’s sneeze or hot death fart. 

In all seriousness, I have problems.

I’ve always had a fear of vomiting-hearing it, seeing it, smelling it, doing it. Nope times ten million. 

Also, I hate having someone see or know I’m sick. Just leave me alone. Better yet, let me hide in the hole I’ve just dug until I’m human again. 

Shit got real about 10 years ago when I worked at a daycare during college. There was a huge norovirus outbreak, and it fucked with my mind in a major way. Like I mentioned before, I’ve never been a fan of puking, but when we went so far as to bleach crayons and books to prevent the spread of a virus, something clicked in me. 

This is bad shit. Literally. I don’t want to puke and poop, involuntarily and simultaneously. How long does this illness from Hell last? Will I have to go to the ER with a puke bucket? OMG. No. We’re all gonna die. HELP. We’re.All.Gonna.Die. 

So, during the great Norovirus Outbreak Freak Out of 2006, I would go to serious OCD extremes to “protect” myself from getting sick. Really, these were just compulsions that made me feel safe. 

When I got home after being stuck in the hot box of germs all day, I’d strip at the door. Before scalding myself in the shower, I’d wipe my purse, keys, and phone down with Clorox wipes. 

This was an everyday thing and I didn’t feel *OK* until my routine was done. 

So, yeah. 

*coughs

Whenever an illness starts making its rounds, I try to play it cool. Even after I hear of the 58th person I know to bite the dust, I try to act like I’m not about the worrying life, but then I find myself spraying my face down with spray hand sanitizer whenever someone’s breath comes a little too close to my face holes.
As much as being sick sucks, I realize that vomiting is not the end of the world (I mean, if you are vomiting due to Ebola, that might mean the end of the world. But, that was so 2014). 

I’m not as OCD about getting sick anymore, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend two days on my bathroom floor.

So that I’m not the only freak in the room, tell me what you’re phobic about. Any fellow emetophobics? If so, how do you calm yer tits when shit gets real? Let me know in the comments! 


Remember this from my But Don’t Do That post? Even this is a lie. If you’re puking in my house, I’m packing and heading for Mexico. NOPE.

Flashback Friday: Fat Clap

What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I be like normal people? Why can’t I be a calm, cool, collected individual? The anxiety, the rash decisions, the guilt. It’s all too much.

I’m useless, mental, insane, compulsively-driven at the very sight of…of cupcakes. I know. What the fuck is wrong with me?

The other day we had a staff meeting where cupcakes were present. They were brought out at the very start of the meeting. They were for a birthday, so tradition dictates that you don’t partake until ‘Happy Birthday’ is sung. Um. Why you people gotta play with me like that?

The.whole.time I sneaked peeks over at those beautiful confections of sugar goodness. It was mean, really.

They were taunting me.

How can you expect anyone, particularly one with an unhealthy relationship to cake, to actually pay attention to the matters at hand when there are cupcakes RIGHT OVER THERE? 

I think I know what we discussed at the staff meeting, but really, all I was concerned with was whether or not I would have time to eat my cupcake before the school day started.

During the height of my anxiety, when I was contemplating how bad it would look if I just snatched one and ran out, I began to notice everyone else.

They were all just casually drinking their coffee and jotting down notes.

I’m having the sweats and I’m feeling like an animal in heat and these people are cool as fucking cucumbers. Really.

It’s moments like these, during staff meetings where I have to abstain, with temptation taunting me, when I wonder how I’m not 400 pounds.

The fact that a fucking cupcake can mentally control me to such a degree is embarrassing. Normal people want one, but they don’t salivate like a starving dog begging for scraps.

My many, fervent, stolen glances over at the rainbow cake bombs, did the trick and it was finally time to get one! *Fat clap*

I basically mowed everyone down to get to them first. I’m that person.

I was instantly ashamed, but my regret didn’t stop me from checking the teacher’s lounge, at lunch, to see if there were any left.

But Don’t Do That

Guys, I’m freaking out. Today, when I was at the factory outlet mall, I needed to use the restroom. Generally, I tend to avoid public restrooms like the plague, because, well, they are filled with foul smells and people with leprosy. I’m not even kidding. Just ugh. Even Starbucks bathrooms are questionable these days. There’s just nothing quite like your own bathroom, your own germs, and your own smells. 

There’s something more. It isn’t just that every single time, I shit-you-not, every.single.time I walk into a public restroom someone just unloaded their barrio burrito from hell, it’s that I have a fear of vomitting. Hearing it, seeing it, smelling it, knowing it’s happening. Just no. 

I’m the kind of teacher who, when one of my students throws up, looks like they are about to throw up, or comes out of the bathroom a sickly shade of green, I’m out the door, down the street, gone. Nope. Nope. Nope. 

I’m the friend who will leave your drunk ass in the bar bathroom if you’re puking. I don’t even care. Maybe it sounds cruel, but I always tell the bartender to hail you a cab. So, it’s OK. 

I’m also this girlfriend. Yup. 

I had my boyfriend help me recreate one of my favorite memes. Even getting this close is questionable. To add to the effect, he made pretend gagging sounds and all that fun stuff. Great work, babe. 

So, back to the bathroom nightmare today. There was a woman in the bathroom making extremely questionable noises. I’m always hypersensitive to the noises that go on in the stalls next to me. So much as a cough, and my heart starts beating faster and I break out into a sweat. When I hear anything other than tinkle tinkle, I freak the fuck out. 

Forcing myself to accept the very real fact that a foot away from me someone was upchucking was unthinkable. Thus, I decided to make up what she was doing instead. So, the woman in.the.very.next.stall was either:

A. Dropping bowling balls into the toilet, which would account for the impressive splashing sounds

B: Plunging the toilet, exuberantly, which would account for the heaving breathing

C: Having a watermelon seed spitting contest, which would account for the spitting

I practically flew out of that bathroom. The damn bathroom at the mall is at the end of this winding, endless hallway. The whole way, I ran, breathless, sweating, shaking. 

It felt like I was never going to see the light of day again. Finally, finally, I saw the light, exited, found Bath & Body Works and tried to forget about my worst nightmare come true. 

Piece of Sh*t Car a la Adam Sandler 

Friends, my car is dying an ugly, ugly death. We had been given a year, but the diagnosis is now, much worse. The sickness running through the fluids and electrical system has recently sped up, and I am now making funeral arrangements. I’m devastated, but not surprised. When you have no emergency break,  and chunks of seat break off, daily, you know your car’s days are numbered.

Everyday, driving to and from work is pushing it. I also have to drive sans air conditioning, and like an 80-year-old with nowhere to go. It’s awful.

It’s not even like I’m that close to my car. It has no quirky name, and no emotional connection to me, whatsoever. I mean, when your car needs major repairs just to pass smog each year, it isn’t exactly considered a prized possession.

No, I’m dreading making car payments. At the ripe-old-age of 32, I’ve never been tied down by car payments. My piece of poo on wheels only cost me $5,000 and it’s been paid off since 2006. I am dreading having to make a substantial payment on a car every month. I’m a teacher, not a billionaire.

With that, because I’ll be a slave to the bank or car dealership for 48 months or longer, I want to be able to have a damn nice ride. I’m not even picky, either. ‘Damn nice’ in my world means having a “clicker” and power windows. But, while I’m not exactly “picky” due only to being poor, I’m super particular, at the same time. It’s a Jetta, or the highway.

Since I’ll likely be driving the most expensive thing I’ll ever possess soon, I know I’ll also be an anxious mess. I like to keep my nice things nice, and we know how people are assholes. I’ll be paranoid about it getting dinged, scratched, or hit. The anxiety is already creeping in. UGH. I think I have an ulcer. 

When you are super OCD, decisions like this are not fun, like most people would treat them. No, all I’m thinking about is how long I’ll have to give up morning Starbucks runs or buying beef because I’ll be paying on a car. I’m dreading the car hunt, because shopping around for something you really can’t afford really kinda sucks. Also, my car has already been keyed by some asshole, and I haven’t even seen it yet.

Wish me luck on my search. Pray I hit the lotto. Something. Anything.

My friend and I would blast this song as we “dragged main”, in my first piece of shit car, an ’86 Mazda 626 with maroon interior and purple tinted windows. We thought we were so hilarious.