On the scale of phobias
Most illogical: Elevators. Just in general, these days, but specifically I am afraid of the elevator at the Clark Street 2/3 stop, which you have to take between the street and the subway. One hot day last summer it was incredibly crowded, and as it inched down into the ground it suddenly occurred to me that not only was I in a suspended metal box crammed so tightly with human beings that no one could sit down even if we got stuck, it was also a metal box whose functionality depended entirely on MTA employees. After years of uneventful elevator experiences, this was all it took.
Most reasonable: Getting hit by someone opening their car door while riding my bike. I worry about this every day, particularly while I ride down Canal Street, which is my most direct route to work. I should probably ride up and take the bike lane down Prince, but the truth is I sort of like riding down Canal. It feels like a video game, what with all the pedestrians, and the trucks pulling over unexpectedly, and the vendors pushing their carts, and the tourists spilling out into the street. If I keep doing this, though, getting doored is such a logical thing to worry about that it hardly even qualifies as a phobia. The only potential upside of this is that the one time I got hit by a door a few years ago, I got a bruise so large and intensely purple (and yellow and even a little green) that it looked like a galaxy and I was so impressed with it I went around showing it to everyone I knew. I’m not sure why but I’ve always felt a little proud of my injuries. This is another thing that really doesn’t make any sense.
