A Silly, Soap-Colored Fear
Have you ever had an irrational fear?
On Wednesday, I went to a car wash.
I suppose all fears are irrational, or at the very least, emotional. Fears are subjective: you can fear being gnashed into little pieces by a giant spider, or fear an incendiary plane crash; both imaginings might seem like death to your body.
I have to admit: I purchased my car in 2020, and since then, I believe I have washed it…once. Or twice. I’ve cleaned the interior…a bit. But the outside? Nope.
I feel like you might be wondering: If she doesn’t clean her car, what else does she not clean? And I can assure you, I am extremely hygienic. Wow, I sound so unconvincing. You shouldn’t have to convince someone of your hygienic practices. But I often take two showers a day! Two!
Going to a car wash scared me.
Why did a simple car wash hold such terror? I think the fear underlying the car wash was the fear of looking stupid. I hadn’t visited a car wash since I’d traded in my 2001 Mazda Tribute (RIP Thunder) for my Volkswagen, and even before then, I think I’d only visited a car wash once or twice.
This was the rigamarole my mind had created, just for me: How do I line up my car on the little conveyor belt? Do I put it in neutral? I’ve never had to drive in neutral and it has always seemed like a fake button, that letter N on my gear selector. Do I hand the car wash attendant my keys? How do I order my wash—is it like the Starbucks drive-thru? I hate drive-thrus, especially the Starbucks ones, which are full of itching caffeine-withdrawing people who are way more comfortable with maneuvering tiny curving pathways than I am.
Really, I didn’t want the car wash attendants, or the people in the surrounding cars, to see me looking nervous, bumbling, or stupid as I bathed my vehicle.
Silly is the word that comes to mind when I read through all of those thoughts. Silly when you consider how quickly those kinds of thoughts can spin through your mind and create a physical reaction, like a faster heart rate or sweaty palms. “Silly” means nothing to a mind overcome by fear.
But I had made a pact with myself earlier that day: I would go for a long walk in a beautiful park, and embrace the warmth of the afternoon. It was going to be sunny, so the water wouldn’t freeze on the outside of your car, I told myself. It was time.
Like most fears, the end result in facing it wasn’t death; instead, I had a metaphor:
I entered the tunnel, let go of the steering wheel, tried not to panic when I saw the steering wheel veer to the right and left, worried I was going to be the one person who fucked it all up and crashed into the giant whirring spin brush, and breathed. I even giggled. And then the tunnel gently released me, back into the bright, warm day.
(So, you know, it was about letting go of control, letting myself feel stupid, facing the unknown, trusting that everything was going to be okay, etc.)
The attendant who helped me was lovely—he even complimented my Rolling Stones t-shirt. The entire wash lasted probably five minutes.
When I was a kid, I feel like I enjoyed new experiences. Like sitting inside a car during a car wash (with my parents at the helm). Back then, the whole machinery seemed to me to be a giant fuzzy creature that sent soap-colored rain streaking down our windows.
It’s comforting to realize I can both face and find joy in the unknown again, in the things I had convinced myself to fear.
