Mock-worthy Moment #1

Phobia

n. : a persistent, irrational fear of a specific object, activity, or situation that leads to a compelling desire to avoid it. Failure to avoid can lead to mock-worthy moments.

A friend once told me he was surprised at how many phobias I have. Do I not look like a girl who is afraid of things? Well, surprise. I've got a list. They may not be so evident because as I've gotten older I tend to avoid these situations. In my younger years I didn't think far enough ahead to keep myself out of them. Or I didn't have an exit plan. Or I let myself get bullied in spite of myself. [sigh] At any rate, it has given my family plenty of mock-worthy moments...some of them immortalized in photographs.

Mock-worthy Moment #1: me + projectile objects = ?

Now, I realize that a fear of projectile objects is not irrational, so it may not fully qualify as a "phobia," but it does prevent me from participating in certain events. Projectile objects for me really only include baseballs/softballs and paintballs. I believe it began when we were playing softball as a family for FHE. Tom was 6, which means I was 8. Gary was up to bat--I think he was 14-- and he hit a line drive down third base. POW! Right into Tom's eye. I have this very vivid memory of Tom getting hit and going down. I was by first base, so I ran across the field as fast as I could. By the time I got over to him, his eye was swollen shut. Watching the healing process was enough to make me shy of line-drives and pop flies for the rest of my life.

But that's not the story I came to tell you.

This story involves the family Christmas gift of 1998. I was 18. Mom and Dad decided to buy the five or six children still at home our own paintball guns. Our back gate opens up into a canyon, a perfect playing field for paintball (unless the neighbors decide to call the cops on us...) and Mom and Dad were pretty excited to find a family gift they were sure everyone would like. I had played paintball with my brothers a few times before this gift, but, unbeknownst to my parents, it had quickly become one "sport" I do not like. Why? My brothers insist on shooting me in the bum every time we play. They think those bruises are the funniest, not only on me but on each other. Nevermind the unintended injuries that have resulted from bad aim...but I digress. I opened my gun and tried to match the enthusiasm of my brothers but deep down I was dreading the pressure that would inevitably come to actually use it. The boys could not have been happier, though. They immediately set to souping up their guns; they turned up the pressure for maximum bruisage and played every chance they got. My gun turned into the "spare gun" for any friends who came over to play. Unfortunately for our guests, it was also the red-headed-step-child gun since it sat in my closet, neglected. It really was the girl gun.

The following year, we headed up to my Uncle's property in Aguanga, CA (pretty much in the middle of nowhere) for Thanksgiving dinner. The boys were so excited: open fields, crisp air, and hours before Thanksgiving dinner would be ready. Bruce's family was even in town and he joined us for the day. I dutifully brought my gun (they wouldn't let me out of the house without it) but had absolutely no intention of playing. My statement of intent not to play was followed by much cajoling and coaxing:

"Julie, you'll have so much fun." Wrong. I will not have fun.

"Julie, it won't be any fun without you." Read: It's more fun to have an easy target that we know will scream on impact.

"Julie, we'll play president and you can be the president. We'll protect you." Being president means I don't even get a gun and I'm the only target in the game. Um, no thanks.

When the cajoling and coaxing didn't work, they used force. And when I say "they," I really just mean Mom. I had intended on staying at the house to hang out with Grandma, but I was informed by my mother that this was a "family" outing and that I had to come and play. Next thing I knew I was being thrust into the van. (I didn't see anyone suiting Mom up with a gun....)

So there I was, sitting out in a field, not dressed nearly warm enough, holding a gun I had no intention of firing (not because I didn't want to nail one of my brothers in the hoo-haw but because it would draw attention to my location). My team didn't even bother including me in the battle plans except to point to the most massive bush on our side and suggest I park it over there, since I had made it clear I had no intention of actually making myself visible to the enemy.

Dad didn't play paintball very often but he was a darn good shot; having been raised in podunk mining towns, he hunted deer every season for their family's winter meat. All he needed was the top of someone's head to poke up, and BAM! they were a goner. Dad and Bruce were on opposite teams--father against oldest son--and they spent the entire game gunning for one another. It didn't take me long to get bored and I eventually sat back and considered life I guess. I actually have no idea what I was thinking about. All I know is that I had been there for a while and really had to go to the bathroom and was wondering how much longer I would have to wait when I eventually became aware of a rustling in the bushes; I thought it was Bruce, who was on my team, so I didn't give it much thought. Then I saw Bruce sneak from one bush to another on the opposite end of the field. I immediately tensed; we were the only ones left on our team so I knew whoever was rustling the bushes was one of the "enemy." The boys always said that surrender was an option, but I knew their style; the offer to surrender was almost always followed by an "accidental" shot fired and "innocent" claims of a hair trigger. I listened and waited to shoot close range at whichever of my brothers dared sneak up on me. The rustling eventually ceased, however, and I determined that whoever had been there had spotted Bruce and changed direction. I relaxed-- but too soon. It was not a brother but rather my dad who popped up from behind the bush, looking fierce, his gun pointed right at my forehead.

No one could have predicted my reaction, not even me. I had intended to shoot whoever poked their head over my bush, channeling my fight response, but it failed me, as did my flight response. Instead I dropped my gun and literally burst into tears as I screamed at the top of my lungs, for the entire valley to hear, "No, Daddy! Please don't shoot me!" It was unnecessary; he was in the process of lowering his gun anyway. He immediately threw his arms around me, assuring me as he laughed sympathetically that he would never shoot me. He told me later he felt terrible that he had scared me so badly. Unfortunately, though, all of my brothers heard my tearful cry; their howling laughter echoed all the way through the valley. That plea has haunted me for years since in the form of mock-high voices at even the slightest hint of cowardice: "No, Daddy, please don't shoot me!" At least it replaced "Freshens my breath!" I'm not sure which I prefer...

[sigh] Sometimes it's really tough being a girl in a family full of boys.

More mock-worthy moments to come..