A Tiny Fear

This is one thing I do not do. I wait. For months.

Evade the swarm of bees released from a knocked-down hive.

Stay out of the room with a thousand protruding coffee table edges. Don’t walk on the mile of black ice.

I know what it is to miscount the steps downstairs with arms full, the last step forgotten as there is only air beneath my foot reaching for what is not there. That terrible moment of my stomach reaching up to the collarbone, a short fall still powerful enough to knock the breath from me.

I do not purposefully go where I might recreate this feeling.

It’s staring at me. Make it stop staring at me. It’s staring at me again. Am I supposed to smile, wave a little? How can that not be creepy?

This weekend, we will not wait. We will go into the darkened room. In-motion, knee-high obstacles around every turn. Some will invoke the same sound I make when I see puppies. Others, when I try to not throw up in my mouth.

Oh, the tiny dresses. Even tinier shoes. There is something about them so adorable that it may be evil. Even I am not made of such cold stone. Little button down shirts with teeny tiny pockets.

The 10 am father making us count his beer runs in our heads against our will before the previews even start. The sounds of snot. Coughs, giggles, lisps. Slurping up liquids through straws. Various chewing in stereo surround sound. Sticky hands touching everything. Stretching, climbing, kicking.

Is it going to touch me? Oh, God, is it talking to me? Don’t they know about “stranger danger”?

Damn you, Steve Carell. Jason Segel. And Kristen Wiig. Who I may or may not be a little gay for.

I curse you for making a children’s movie that will actually make me come into contact with children to see it. One that we will not wait to watch on DVD. Despicable me? Despicable you, indeed.