Given that we’re all humans, I think we can all agree on this: every one of us is imperfect. 
 
(The only exception is the first time one falls madly, deeply and impossibly in love with his or her utterly unflawed partner.   But this, too, shall pass.) 
 
Now I’ll go a step further: I believe that each of us has at least one phobia. 
 
Perhaps it’s more of an irritant to your spouse, like making absolutely sure the closet doors in a bedroom are completely closed before going to sleep, because who knows what sort of nocturnal presence is lurking beside our jeans and shirts?  Or it could be something that messes big time with our everyday lives, like the arachnophobia The Teenage Daughter once endured.   Her panic in grammar school after glimpsing even the tiniest spider was so acute—hysterical screaming, running and weeping—that she saw a school counselor for an entire year.  
 
Lest you think you’re phobia free, trust me, that’s impossible.
 
Indeed, you’re sure to find at least one perfect fit at www.phobiasource.com or www.phobialist.com, both of which list hundreds of fears. 
 
As a matter of fact, the former says phobias are the most common type of emotional disorders in the United States, and gives this simple definition: an intense fear of certain situations, activities, things, animals or people.  The site goes on to say that while the person knows the behavior around his/her fear is irrational, their behavior is also out of his/her control.
 
So it’s here, in alphabetical order no less, that you’ll find familiar phobias like dentophobia (fear of dentists) and agoraphobia (fear of open spaces/fear of leaving a safe place).  But who knew about kynophobia, the fear of rabies; katsaridapobia, the fear of cockroaches, and bufonophobia, the fear of toads?  There’s also octophobia, which is fear of the figure eight, and pupaphobia, the fear of, you guessed it, puppets.   
 
Then there’s my brand new phobia.
 
Not coincidently, it began about three months ago, right after my child got her driver’s license and began going places
by herself. 
 
And even though she is very, very good behind the wheel, and gets around in the sturdy, boring white Saturn sedan I handed down to her, I’m still uneasy. 
 
One reason is that her traveling isn’t limited to getting to work and college classes.  Nope, The Teenage Daughter traverses all over our wide open county—a total area of more than 3,000 square miles, including curvy canyon roads and crowded freeways—to do things like bowling, swing dancing and late night meals with her crew. 
 
It gets worse.
 
That’s because my phobia isn’t limited to simply hoping that my girl stays safe.
 
Nope.  It’s because I absolutely believe that every single time she backs out of our driveway, I will never see her
​alive again.
 
Lest one thinks this is a tad extreme, regular readers know I come by this fear honestly.
 
After all, her first dad, who was also my longtime partner, left our house one night to kill himself—which he did with frightening efficiency.  (That story is here, at http://hilaryrobertsgrant.weebly.com/blog/a-shot-in-the-dark.)  Yup, it’s another new psychological scar that has reared its not-so-pretty head, although it has no doubt been buried deep inside me, a full 17 years after the suicide.    
 
And, while I knew that I couldn’t be the only person in the world with this issue, I assumed that only a handful of people suffer from this.  After all, even I’m aware that it’s a bit extreme.   
 
Then I heard a recent radio interview with Rabbi Susan Silverman, the older sister of the brilliant comedienne
Sarah Silverman.
 
The eldest Silverman voiced that she, too, once suffered from the identical crippling phobia for decades, but never knew why.  To say it wasn’t easy on her husband and children is an understatement.
 
But then, after more than a few years with one therapist, she casually mentioned that her infant brother Jeffrey died
in a freak accident in his crib when she was two years old.  Her mother and father were away at the time, leaving the
baby and herself in the care of grandparents, who discovered the body. 
 
While Silverman had no memory of the event, the therapist explained that on some level, she still remembered the
death; consequently, her phobia began rooting then.  After years of counseling, the once-constant fear is now much subdued.  (The entire interview is at www.npr.org/2016/05/23/479150041/susan-silverman-on-anxiety-adoption-and-making-a-family-in-an-uncertain-world.)
 
Given that I’ve only just become aware of this same phobia, I still don’t know how I’ll go about fixing it. 
 
For now, I am extremely grateful for cell phones, and the fact that my daughter almost always texts back within five minutes of receiving a text from me making sure that she’s okay.  (Although I’ve never mentioned this fear to her, she went through the same death, and perhaps that’s why she responds quickly.  Also know that I make sure to never ever text while she’s in class, at work, or especially, driving.) 
 
Furthermore, I now have a ritual that happens if I’m home when she’s leaving .
 
I tell her to drive carefully, and I tell her I love her, in that order.  I know that these words are no more than a talisman, but saying them makes me feel better, and who knows, maybe they do act as some sort of magical, unseen protectant.  I also pray, out loud and in my head, many times during the day,that she’ll have a really good day, and be safe in every way.
 
So far, it has worked. 
 
Still, I also know that becoming a parent means becoming a hostage to fortune. 
 
And that probably means that while I can put a band aid or two on this phobia,  it isn’t going to  disappear anytime soon.  While I’m not exactly okay with this, I know that I have to live with it… at least for now.
 
What’s your phobia, and have you come to terms with it?  I look forward to hearing your stories and comments, especially if you’re a parent! 

​(A note: free floating anxiety, fear mongering and violence.  In other words, it’s a  Presidential election year, also known as a scary rewind of the 1968 playbook.  So I’ve written this post, because I think we can all use a smile right about now.)
 
Once upon a time, when I lived in Brooklyn (way before it was hip) and worked in Manhattan (as a low caste secretary), a boss dispensed some advice. 
 
She was standing beside my desk, and in-between this girl clown’s IBM Selectric assignments, we were talking about collectibles.  Specifically, we were talking about her pig collection. This included ceramic, wood and glass figurines; all sorts of mugs, and of course, more than a few piggy banks.
 
She paused.  “So,” she asked, “what do you collect?”
 
I thought for a moment. 
 
“Nothing,” I replied.  
 
She was aghast. “You have to collect something!” she said.  “Everyone needs to collect something.”
 
She was absolutely right.   But it wasn’t until a few years later, when I was flusher (and not so coincidentally, no longer typing letters for a living), that I took her advice to heart.   Because really, it’s great for whatever reason to feel connected to a particular assemblage of stuff—whether an homage to a person, place or thing; an animal or mineral, or any mash-up of this combination—that can also make you smile.
 
My first big collage, no surprise here, was clown dolls.
 
Mostly bought at thrift stores, flea markets and garage sales, many were made out of wood or plastic; a handful were sewn almost entirely out of colorful fabric yo-yos, those little gathered circles of leftover material so popular among quilters. Later there were lavishly illustrated children’s books; rubber ducks, and those flowery old timey tablecloths favored by country magazines.  I’ve also amassed cookbook and Pyrex assortments, both of which I use on a regular basis.
 
To view any of these—I’ve culled over the years but most are displayed in some fashion—you’d have to visit my house.
 
But if you see me out and about, it’s easy to spot the one collection I always carry with me.
 
Welcome to my assemblage of wrist watches. 
 
Naturally, I wear just one at a time (pun intended), but if you hang out where I do for a month or so, you’re likely to see most of them.
 
Befitting a circus girl, the majority are supposed to be worn by kids, and to that end, have colorful easy-to-read faces. Two sport baby pink fabric bands (ballerinas and flowers), and there’s another band in the same color, but made of plastic, with raised yellow and pink flowers.  I also wear a sky blue timepiece featuring red airplanes and puffy clouds, and can’t forget the Swatch watch with bunny rabbits.  Of course, there’s also my cherry red Minnie Mouse watch. 
 
I’m capable of being an adult about all of this, too. 
 
To that end, there’s a proper black leather band watch with a classic rectangular face, as well as a 1980s Fossil model with a kind-of-sort-of mesh chain design.  And for those very special occasions, I’ll slip on the delicate vintage Bulova that The Hubster gave me when we had more wiggle room in the gift department.
 
I love every single one of them. 
 
As it turns out, wristwatches haven’t been around as long as one might think.
 
Patek Philippe and Company debuted the first one, in 1868, but it wasn’t until World War I that their popularity surged—mainly because soldiers quickly discovered that they couldn’t easily pull out a pocket watch while their hands were full.  The children’s watch was introduced by Ingersoll in 1933, and no big shocker here, featured Mickey Mouse. These days,
Timex and Flik Flak seem to have that market pretty well cornered (www.timex.com/node/6801 and
http://www.flikflak.com/en/watches/), but adults can have their fun, too, buying a Sprout
watch (http://www.sproutwatches.com/), or going for a major splurge like a super-luxe watch with diamonds (check out
Patek Philippe and Tag Heurer).  
 
Still, despite all of the innovative and beautiful choices and designs, and despite fitting every budget, it’s pretty obvious that wristwatches are fast becoming dinosaurs.
 
Indeed, even though it seems so much easier to glance at one’s arm for the time, The Teenage Daughter and the rest of her crew depend on their mobile phones for this information.  Maybe it’s because wearing a watch looks incredibly dorky to them, or maybe it’s because they can simultaneously get the weather, silly videos, and just about everything else with their cells.
 
Accordingly, if wearing a timepiece make me an old stick in the mud, so be it.  I use my cell phone a lot, but here’s to the wristwatch—and my growing collection of them.    
 
So, what do you collect?  I’d also love to hear about your first watch, and the story
behind it.
 
P.S.  If you’re of A Certain Age Younger Than Me, you may not know about the IBM Selectric, and its extraordinary impact on technology.  If this is you, here you go:  http://www-03.ibm.com/ibm/history/ibm100/us/en/icons/selectric/.