I tend to have nightmares often…the really bad, vivid kind. I don’t watch horror movies because I’m afraid that my active imagination will use new character and plot development against me as soon as I go to sleep. With this in mind, I made the smart decision to go to a haunted house last night with some friends. I hadn’t been to a haunted house since I was probably around 8, and I left that one with my tear-stained face buried in my dad’s jacket. I’ve avoided them ever since. Needless to say, I was beyond nervous and the fact that I wasn’t allowed to reflexively punch those who jumped at me didn’t calm my nerves. Neither did the zombies crawling from behind haystacks, the guy with the chainsaw, or the screaming lady in front of me (and this is on the path leading up to the house).
However, these past couple of years have been about conquering fears and that was my aim in what I considered to be a foolish mission. I made sure I was neither first nor last, and took determined steps into a house of horror. Around every corner I waited for someone to jump out at me, someone to grab me, or someone to stab me or give me the zombie virus. No one did. I laughed at the creepy kids, argued in German with the actor who merely quoted Rammstein, and confidently told the evil doctor why my life should be spared. In the end, it turns out that I scared myself the most with mere anticipation. I didn’t scream once, and I didn’t get to punch any zombies…what a let down.