Monday, June 8
Propane-nophobia? Whatever. The fear is real
I fear propane.
I mean, I knew that I had a particularly leery approach to the propane tanks. Honestly, all it takes are a few movies where the tanks explode and kill people around them, to make anyone hesitate to be near them. But I didn't realize how deep my random phobia was until Brian asked me to take the barbecue's propane tank and get a full replacement.
My first thought: um, hell no. I will not be transporting a tank of propane in my car.
Then I tried to rationalize why I couldn't do it. And I texted him my phobia-focused responses: you still have plenty of chicken in the fridge; I have never detached a tank from the barbecue. He didn't reply, and his lack of response to my excuses shamed me, I guess, so I cowboyed-up and did it.
I unscrewed the tank under the barbecue, and grabbed the extra tank I had from the neighbor's old barbecue that's been sitting in the backyard for months because I was afraid to take it to Lowe's by myself. I put both tanks outside the yard, and then put them in the trunk of my car. Sydney and I got in the car and I carefully and slowly drove out of the community. Every time we turned a corner out of the housing area, I freaked. I heard one tank roll on its side and run into the other. I freaked out. At the stoplight, I made Sydney get out of the backseat and sit in the front passenger seat. In my head, the three feet farther away from the trunk and tanks she was, the better.
I felt much better to get the tanks out of my car and leave them at Lowe's. But then, the issue with getting a full tank home was ahead of me. As when I brought them there, I brought it home: the propane is in the trunk, and Sydney is in the front seat. I could not get home and get that tank out of the car and into the backyard fast enough, though I still drove extremely carefully and much slower than I normally do.
When Brian got home, he was surprised that I'd done it. He had taken my excuse about not ever detaching the tank before as a good reason to not do it. So he was prepared to do it himself when he got home. While we were discussing it, I told him about my extreme precautions, and explained to him that, for whatever reason, I am super scared of propane. I don't like it, and won't deal with it again. I said to him, "Don't ask me. If you do, I'll tell you straight up, no." He laughed, of course, but felt bad about me dealing with it as I did.
And then, in my head, I was all, "Holy crap, Kimberly, you have a serious issue with propane. It's a phobia."
Posted by Kimmie G at 10:49 PM