I am afraid of many things. None of my fears are debilitating, but some of them are really weird. Probably my weirdest fear is of whales. I’m terrified of whales.
This fear first surfaced (pun totally intended) at a lake in Ontario, Canada when I was three years old. While other children played in the water, I stood on the shore in my Strawberry Shortcake one-piece.
“Mom?” I called. “Are there any whales in that lake?”
“No, honey. Whales live in the ocean. Not in lakes.”
“But are you sure there aren’t any whales in that lake?”
Of course, I don’t actually remember any of this, but my mom has told the story so many times over the years that it’s entered my consciousness as a constructed memory of sorts. I’m sure it’s true, though, because it’s exactly the sort of thing I’d say. Even now.
A few years later, when I began taking swimming lessons at the local YMCA, I was tormented by the fear that a whale would somehow squeeze through the drain at the bottom of the pool. I know this doesn’t make any sort of rational sense, but keep in mind that I was like five years old and watched a lot of cartoons. By cartoon logic, it makes complete sense. A whale could easily be transmuted into vapor, drift through the drain pipe, and then reassemble itself inside the deep end of the pool.
Yes, I know that whales are gentle and intelligent. But they are also really big. And they eat people. The Bible says so (Jonah). So does Walt Disney (Pinocchio). If the Bible and Walt Disney agree on this, then certainly it must be true. Right?
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