The definition of love and other things

On Monday, it was Steve's birthday.

Last night, we had a host of regulars drop around for a really great, short, treat-filled party. Steve wanted balloons and cake, mostly for the kids. So he says, anyway.

In the afternoon, the LGBB and I set up, making a "Welcome to your birthday party, Daddy" poster (which she held up at the window for a good fifteen minutes before he fiiiinally drove up the street, awwww) and watching me blow up balloons.

Now, this is a treat for anyone who wants to see sheer agony on a balloon-o-phobe's face. For that is what I am. Yes, hi, I am Kirrily and I have a not-so-mild case of globophobia.

So I braved the balloon, thought, "I can do this, I'm always scared of them popping when someone's blowing them up but I've never actually seen one pop in the process of being blown up unless the blower has blown the thing up to a ridiculously huge size." I have faced my fears in the past years and actually blown them up, but you'll always tell which ones are mine. They have about three puffs of air in them and that's it, which looks kind of pissy in amongst all the other ones blown up by everyone else. So usually, I don't bother helping and I clear right out of the room.

You know what happened, don't you? The fecking thing EXPLODED IN MY FACE, mid-third puff. Stung me like someone had taken a switch to my lips. Not so good for the phobia.

But I have to ask you, is that the definition of true love? To not only go ahead and put aside your own fears for the sake of another, but do it after your fear is realised? Or is it simply stupidity? Or martyrdom, even? For you see, just before blowing up that balloon, I had just tied off and given to the LGBB a lovely purple one. She was so excited! I was so excited! I'd blown up the damn thing! And there was already the first one I'd blown up, floating around on the floor. Ok, so it was only the size of a rockmelon, but hey-hey! It was up and tied and floating and not popping.

Yee-haw, I could do this. I looked at the pack of 100 and had thought, I'll stop at 20. That should be enough.

No. No, as it turns out, one is enough. Because that one burst while Lolly was just holding it - the poor darl, she's not fantastic with loud noises and so the bang left us both a bit frazzled and giggling in that insane kind of "I'm going to pretend like it didn't bother me so the other person doesn't catch on", which was kind of funny, I had to admit. But after that next one blew up in my face, her fake giggles turned to real tears. And I just pushed aside the other 97 in the pack and said, "Daddy is going to do those ones."

Seriously, I am uneasy in a room with even one balloon in it, let alone several. However, I have discovered over the years that the fear is in direct proportion to the dimensions of the room and the number of balloons - for instance, if it were a grand ballroom and there were balloons on the ceiling, no problem. If it is an outdoor function, pah - almost not worth mentioning. It's the confined room space scenario, particularly if the room is fairly quiet, that gets me on edge. Add to that a few scurrying children and some toddlers who can barely walk, falling all over their balloons and biting them and...... shudder. My nightmare.

So. What about you? Do you, or anyone you know, have any uncommon fears or phobias? Are they debilitating for you? Have they lessenned in intensity or have you designed any work-arounds? Do tell.