I’m afraid of sharks, but I’m allergic to horses.
Part of me thinks that being allergic to something and being afraid of something are kind of on the same playing field. I should just start telling people that I’m allergic to sharks. Then I won’t have to go through conversations like this:
“Why are you so afraid of sharks, Car?”
“I saw Jaws when I was like five, when I was on a camping trip.”
“How did you watch TV on a camping trip.”
“Well, we had a room, with a shower, and a TV, and a fire pit.”
“That’s not camping…”
My fear of horses hasn’t generated from a terrifying rendition of Black Beauty or The Last Unicorn. I was just not born with the ability to breathe and sit on top of a horse simultaneously. My mother, of course, did not realize this until it was too late. My mom grew up working on race tracks and started her own business sewing horse wraps when she was in her twenties, so naturally she dreamed of birthing a little girl who would someday share a mutual compassion and adoration for these tall, sleek, four legged creatures.
At a fair when I was about three, my mom thought what many wide eyed mothers think when they see horses at town fairs.
I’m going to stick my smaller than a yard stick sized human on this incredibly large creature and hope for the best. Maybe she’ll ride around in circles, or maybe the horse will frantically buck, hurling my toddler seventeen feet in the opposite direction. Who knows?
I actually almost died.
My throat passage closed, both of my eyes swelled completely shut, and my face turned funny colors. I became all puffy and sweaty…Similar to a miniature Jabba the Hut.
The following months were filled with doctor visits and needle prick tests, where they injected tiny amounts of various potential allergens into my body to see what I reacted negatively to.
I reacted negatively to horses. Big surprise there!
Moral of the story, I can’t ride horses.
Neither can Jabba the Hut.