Other people may like fish hooks just fine and not give a thought to their potential death by drowning. They may, however, be afraid of spiders, or air travel, or child birth, or potato salad that has been left out of the fridge for more than fifteen minutes, or being in a car that is spinning wildly out of control, or of the number 30, or of what other people are thinking of them, or of pizza sauce, or of public speaking, or of ObamaCare, or of slingshots, or of finding new facial wrinkles, or of not having adequate health insurance, or of losing a spouse, or of all left shoes, or of buttons too large for button holes, or of nuclear war, or of yellow crayons that have broken in half, or of 100 watt bulbs, or of being alone in later years.
None of these things cause me more than a smidge of concern, much less actual, outright fear. Drowning and fish hooks: what's the connection? Water? Boats? Fish in water? An event in my distant past that I have repressed so completely that I have absolutely no idea what it might be?
Whatever the origin, I would no more be in a boat with other people gaily handling fish hooks then I would (as someone's grandmother probably says) fly to the moon. In fact, flying to the moon sounds like just a load of fun and I can hardly wait to try it.
When walking hand in hand with my wife along a pier jutting out into Monterey Bay near sunset, I am very, very careful to judge the actions of the fishermen casting lines into the water. If it looks to me that they are even contemplating a cast, which might, possibly, on the back swing, put a fish hook, for just a moment, in my path, I stop and gaze lovingly into my wife's eyes or comment on the beauty of the setting sun or of the particular shade of green that the parks and recreation people have selected for the guard rails.
Drowning is less of an issue since I don't set foot on boats, no matter how firmly attached to the dock. And I don't like sand, which puts the sea shore beyond my reach.
I will admit that, as I age, I am gathering around me certain idiosyncrasies. For instance, I eschew raspberries in any of their multiple forms. I'm sure I've eaten things that taste far worse than those nasty little hair-covered balls of teeth-staining liquid, but I will not tolerate them in my immediate surroundings. I consider very carefully a blueberry muffin that sits in its coffee shop counter case near a raspberry muffin to be sure that the two haven't touched at any time.
On more than one occasion, I've ordered what is described to me by an effusive waiter as the most marvelous of chocolate cakes, only to be served the promised cake sitting atop a drizzle of raspberry sauce that some chef trying to make a name for himself has decided would enhance my gustatory experience. I send it back.
My relationship to fish hooks, however, is of a different order. I am truly afraid that they, following their own twisted-steel-like logic, will find a way to lodge themselves in my flesh and will need to be removed by surgeons flown in for just the purpose. (I'm not afraid of the pain, however. For instance, I enjoy watching a nurse insert a needle into my arm to draw blood, mostly, I think, because it unnerves some of them, who keep telling me they are about to do the deed so I can look away, which I don't, which just continues the dialogue until they think, 'what the hell', and stick me.) Don't even ask me to write a sentence about the possible relationship between a fish hook and the organ of my body that I use for sight.
So, you amateur psychologists or advocates of religious doctrines that include reincarnation, what do you make of this? Truly, I've pondered the origin of the fish hook/drowning conundrum and have come away clueless. Perhaps I'll just lump fear of fish hooks and disdain for raspberries into the expanding back pack of charming and amusing curmudgeon-creating attributes that I carry around with me.
When walking hand in hand with my wife along a pier jutting out into Monterey Bay near sunset, I am very, very careful to judge the actions of the fishermen casting lines into the water. If it looks to me that they are even contemplating a cast, which might, possibly, on the back swing, put a fish hook, for just a moment, in my path, I stop and gaze lovingly into my wife's eyes or comment on the beauty of the setting sun or of the particular shade of green that the parks and recreation people have selected for the guard rails.
Drowning is less of an issue since I don't set foot on boats, no matter how firmly attached to the dock. And I don't like sand, which puts the sea shore beyond my reach.
I will admit that, as I age, I am gathering around me certain idiosyncrasies. For instance, I eschew raspberries in any of their multiple forms. I'm sure I've eaten things that taste far worse than those nasty little hair-covered balls of teeth-staining liquid, but I will not tolerate them in my immediate surroundings. I consider very carefully a blueberry muffin that sits in its coffee shop counter case near a raspberry muffin to be sure that the two haven't touched at any time.
On more than one occasion, I've ordered what is described to me by an effusive waiter as the most marvelous of chocolate cakes, only to be served the promised cake sitting atop a drizzle of raspberry sauce that some chef trying to make a name for himself has decided would enhance my gustatory experience. I send it back.
My relationship to fish hooks, however, is of a different order. I am truly afraid that they, following their own twisted-steel-like logic, will find a way to lodge themselves in my flesh and will need to be removed by surgeons flown in for just the purpose. (I'm not afraid of the pain, however. For instance, I enjoy watching a nurse insert a needle into my arm to draw blood, mostly, I think, because it unnerves some of them, who keep telling me they are about to do the deed so I can look away, which I don't, which just continues the dialogue until they think, 'what the hell', and stick me.) Don't even ask me to write a sentence about the possible relationship between a fish hook and the organ of my body that I use for sight.
So, you amateur psychologists or advocates of religious doctrines that include reincarnation, what do you make of this? Truly, I've pondered the origin of the fish hook/drowning conundrum and have come away clueless. Perhaps I'll just lump fear of fish hooks and disdain for raspberries into the expanding back pack of charming and amusing curmudgeon-creating attributes that I carry around with me.