#6 Flour Power

I have a phobia.

My phobia is of the sensation that is rubbing flour on a wood surface with one's bare hands. The sound, the feeling... the thought of it makes me convulse and move my body with so much discomfort, it resembles how the 7th grade version of myself used to dance at parties. Granted, it's not just flour that can do this to me. It's any powdery/grainy substance that comes into contact with my hands/feet, and in the case of flour, wood just makes this worse. Think of how you might react to nails on a chalkboard, it's just taken to the extreme here.

When I talk to my friends about this, after they laugh at me relentlessly, they pause and say, "Wynn, that's not a phobia. That's a weird annoyance you have that is possibly linked to a traumatic baking incident in your youth." Hey, friends? NO. The only traumatic baking incident from my youth was when I attempted to make home-made doughnuts by smothering bagels in cake frosting, and then microwaving them. And, it was only traumatic because it was the first time I learned that even the most delicious foods can cause you to projectile vomit immediately after consumption.

These dear friends of mine also like to surprise me by pouring flour on a wooden cutting board and rubbing it around like it's finger paint. When this happens, I say farewell to all dignity I once had, and proceed to scream, cry, spit out a string of curses, punch, kick, scream some more, and I usually end up under a table.

Now that all of you know that, here comes my next story.

I was bored, so I decided to go venture around and get some pizza at a hip pizza place. I wasn't too crazy about their slice selection, but I had a sudden craving for their spinach, chicken and cheese pizza roll.

One of the guys behind the counter tells me that they just sold their last one, but if I wanted to stick around while he made another, I could. Was that even a question? It's like if I was looking to buy a car, and someone said that if I waited a week I could get a flying dragon to take me around town instead. I waited.

Just my luck, the pizza place is pretty empty, so the pizza maker decides to engage in a conversation with me. To tell the truth, I cannot recall a word he said. I was too fixated on the fact that I was being forced to hear, see, and be conscious of my phobia. I could hear the flour rubbing against the wood... I could imagine what it would feel like on my hands... I didn't understand how he could possibly make pizzas for a living. After we'd been talking for a bit, he stopped mid sentence, gave me an uncharacteristically judgmental look, and then continued working with the dough. I looked down...

Throughout the entire conversation, I had viciously ripped apart the paper menu I had been holding. I was surrounded by a heaping pile of homemade confetti. Because I am weak, I must have been visibly struggling with the menu, too, and I'm sure this terrified the pizza man. The guy who took my order was in the back, filling up my chicken roll, and looked over at me. Did he think I got nervous in social interactions? Did he think I was trying to make art? Maybe, in some culture, paper shreds are a holy gift and I had just presented them to him... After a moment, he laughed. Granted, I was laughing at myself as well, but I had not given him permission, so I secretly decided to think bad thoughts about him for about 30 seconds.

When these things happen to me, I like to make people feel bad for being so judgmental. If I trip and a stranger laughs at me, I might pretend to make a phone call, speak loudly enough for them to hear, and I'll say something like, "mom, you were right, trying to run to the orphanage so soon after surgery was a bad idea, I hope the kids can forgive me."

You get the gist, I'm a terrible person.

In this situation, though, I had no justification. No hypothetical children in need could help me out, no charity would make me seem normal. 15 minutes later, I got my chicken roll and I ate in the pizza place, blushing uncontrollably.

And then, like clockwork, the door opened in a hurry, and a grown man ran in, attempted to lean on the counter, and missed completely, falling directly on his face.

He turned bright red, and looked at me. I quickly chewed and said, "that's nothing," I acknowledged the pile of menu confetti on the table I was sitting at, "you don't even want to know how that got there." Maybe he sensed my honesty, or maybe he saw that I had a piece of spinach in my teeth and a dollop of tomato sauce on my shirt, but his face returned to a normal complexion, he laughed a bit, and ordered as if he hadn't just fallen gracelessly. I had done my job.

Would I rather ruin this guy's day and have my embarrassing moment be forgotten about, or use my embarrassing phobia to help someone out?

Again, car vs. flying dragon.