Silly Shivers

Globophobia… That is what I am stuck with. Many people have enough dignity to develop phobias of things that make sense to fear, like fear of darkness, high places, blood, closed spaces, and even oceans… all valid and acknowledged irrational fears that a person could understand a meltdown over if it happened. Not me though, I have globophobia, which, for those fortunate enough not to have it, is the fear of balloons. Those inflated squeaky time sound bombs had me running in a different direction the second I encountered one.

When I was a child, my fear was cute in some cases, something to be wielded by my brother to scare the living hell out of me in other cases. The older I get, the more I can’t shake it away, and the more stubborn the fear stays, stripping me of my dignity the second a toddler decides it is a good idea to get their slimy fingers to squeeze and squeak the already inflated nylon fabric. The anticipation of the inevitable boom, the tightly stretched latex, the painful high-pitch squeaks coming out of it, and the oblivious, smiling moron of a toddler clutching the balloon, as if their life depended on it. It’s too much, only when you’re older, discomfort and panic should be hidden well, or else your fear would be the subject of a cheap joke, light banter, cute quirk, or in worse scenarios, a severe judgment of your character and the potential of you being an attention seeking liar.

There was that horror movie once “IT” written by Stephan King, I remember watching it thinking, even as a child, I could never be one of his victims. While the stupid clown used a red balloon to attract unsuspecting kids, I would have gone screaming for the hills. The fact is, I’m not afraid of the balloon sitting idly on the floor, or hanging around with no company, it is the balloon being inflated, played with, sat on, bitten, squeezed, or burned off with cigarettes or poked with sharp knives and pins. You might think many of these situations are unlikely, to say the least, and I desperately wish that was true had I not witnessed the aggression an almost bursting tight latex balloon brings out of people, kids and adults alike. I sat on numerous civil occasions where my attention was driven away from the sparkle of the event to the teething kid who is chewing the puffed plastic like it’s the only meal available, like it's the sacred purpose given in their life; to aggressively chew to inevitably hysterically cry when their purpose blows up in their face, quite literally at that. Moving on from the expected stupidity of kids to the unexpected stupidity in adults I faced on more occasions than I am comfortable admitting; like when a birthday party of one of my cousins consisted of “Superman Toss” ing the children into a huge basket full of balloons to feel them pop right from under you. I was barely 5 or 6 and it was the first “adults are idiots, don’t trust them” lesson for me; a kid being tossed into what they consider pure terror. Another incident was in a fancy birthday to a fancier cousin when we were children at a restaurant that organizes kids’ birthdays, even though it was my first experience eating a not homemade burger, being disgusted by the tomatoes, onions, pickles, and patty instead of enjoying it, but the worst part of it all was cutting the cake, and one dim-witted adult cheering drunkenly, popping the hanging balloons with their lit cigarettes. Another core memory created by these happiness-inducing balloons is when my father wanted to do a bonding activity with me, or fulfill a childhood dream, and bought a massive deflated balloon whose opening is wide enough to fit your entire mouth and thick enough to cover car wheels. I watched in horror as the balloon only got bigger and bigger threatening me with an explosive outcome I could not escape, I only silently pleaded with my dad to stop blowing and that’s it big enough, but it fell on deaf ears, until, again, it blew up in his face, and mine, his red swollen face was one I could not feel empathy for. Balloons are simple creatures, like everyone but more straightforward, mess with them too much, stretch them beyond their capacity, fill them with more than they can handle, and they blow up in your face; rather spectacularly at that, boldly and without remorse. And I am forever jealous and afraid of that trait of theirs.

There are times in my life when this fear saved me; I learned not to invite my best friend to my birthday whose idea of a gift was a huge set of gold and pink balloons, painting me the bad guy in front of my relatives and friends on my special day when she knew exactly why her gift was less than appreciated, I learned to stay away from the birthday cake in any party where puffed latex was everywhere, thus avoiding the drama of who blows out the candles, which turns surprisingly violent considering they are 5 and 8 years old siblings, and they made me choose a person who, unprompted, deflated every balloon in his birthday unknowingly to their parents so I would enjoy myself even though it is his birthday, and took me to watch new year celebrations through roofs, balconies, and dreamy towers, keeping me in the events but taking me away from the danger of fireworks and balloons. So, in hindsight, I should thank my phobia, for being a natural filter for some people in my life that left only the best of the best for me behind. I always wondered about exposure therapy, as if I was not exposed enough, and I decided that there is one thing more humiliating than fearing balloons, it was fearing them enough to need professional help to rid you of it, so call me a coward, but this is part of my dignity I am not willing to trade, not yet at least.

Balloons, you magnificent inflated plastic fabric. I hate you; I love you…