September 16, 2005
Living With Fear
Jill Brooks, INtake columnist

Women’s magazines of late compile smatterings of articles related to “fearless living,” a theme as trendy as those fat-hiding lingerie-type blouses that are well beyond their fifteenth minute of fame.

There are many how-to books on living fearlessly, but those usually come with self-help workbooks; I have a grave fear of self-help workbooks. Deep down we all know our fears; learning to live with fear itself assures that there is nothing to fear (read closely…there’s a cliché in there somewhere).

I recently read an article that featured a woman’s experiment to conquer her fears by ridding herself of redundant routines in Suburbia.

Included in her many victories was cooking live lobster for lunch, taking a jaunt on an airplane, and sitting with a complete stranger’s dog that was being put to sleep. I began questioning my own fears, and plotted a similar experiment to conquer them thusly.

Ironically, making the top of my list was, in fact, living in Suburbia. Everyone I know says to enjoy being single for as long as possible (I’ve unwittingly tested this theory for years). No one ever says, “Settle down—it may be your last chance at Suburbia.”

With baby steps and no shackles of commitment (another fear), I decided that visiting Suburbia was my first course of action. In the time it took me to tour Clay Terrace, I conquered my fear of senseless traffic congestion and shopping for over-priced clothing.

Next up was my fear of heights. I’m not afraid of flying, but I sure don’t care to jump from a plane. I’ve never actually tried it, but I’m okay with this. Give me fear itself and I’ll lead a fulfilled life without ever parachuting to safety.

I scratched that one off the list.

I am not afraid of being alone; in fact, many things are much better done alone, such as shopping and traveling. I can’t, however, sit in a bar by myself for fear of looking like an idiot.

The chance that I may end up shredding a napkin while sipping rum & Coke from a hollow swizzle stick stings like the turning point of a bad Melanie Griffith movie.

Continuing my scientific experiment and realizing I must rid myself of this ridiculous fear, I stopped at MacNiven’s after work, alone, for a beer.

Will I stop at nothing to define courage?

I sat and drank an entire beer; no one laughed at me or pointed fingers; the walls didn’t cave in.

I’m so fearless I scare myself.