Waiting for November 1st

There are three things that terrify me.

Dark shower curtains.
Empty theater bathrooms.
Haunted Houses.

Ok and sharks.

Every Halloween season I'm forced to face the Haunted House issue. There are always friends who want to go. Or brothers. Or husbands. And I'm always forced to say "Sorry, I can't. Because it's too scary. And because I'm a big chicken." I remember several years ago when I was living in a house with five other girls and a big group of friends decided to go to the Haunted Prison. A multi-level stone prison that's frightening enough on a spring afternoon let alone when it's been converted into a Haunted House. When my friends decided to go I wanted to say no. I needed to say no. I SHOULD have said no. Instead I said YEAH! and WOO! like I was part of the popular crowd. I'm an adult now, I thought. It's just pretend, I considered. Nothing is actually going to happen to me, I chanted. All the way there. I was determined to overcome my silly fear. Determined to be a cool kid for once. Not the nerd who hyperventilates and has to sit in the back of the emergency ambulance embarrassing your friends and yourself. (Yes, this has happened to me.) I made it all the way to the entry of the Haunted Prison before freaking out and leaving. They said if I left I couldn't get my $15 back and that was fine with me. Just the idea of going inside made my heart race too fast and every surface of my skin sweat and itch. I went and sat on a picnic table at the exit, no doubt provided for moms waiting for their children. And chickens.

About an hour later I see my friends coming out and I finally feel some relief. Finally breathe normally. Finally stop shivering. And right at that moment, Freddy Krueger charges towards me, chainsaw blazing. Me! The one sitting with the parents! In the safe-chicken zone!

I nearly broke the picnic table in half trying to get away. Screaming.

My friends nearly hyperventilated. Laughing.