The Owner: Roach-a-Phobia
For some people, it’s spiders. For others, snakes. For me, it’s cockroaches.
Last night, I googled “cockroach” and “phobia” but couldn’t find a formal name, though I’m sure it exists. To the untrained eye, my aversion could be interpreted as common sense: who wants anyone breaking into their cabinets and eating their Cheerios? But mine is more fear than frustration, unable to be calmed with reasoning.
I was once so (illogically) terrified by the uncommon sighting of three separate cockroaches in my first New York apartment that, at 1:30 in the morning, I took a half-hour bus to my boyfriend’s apartment in New Jersey. I couldn’t sleep in my apartment that night, convinced I’d be visited in bed.
On the day my kitchen was recently completed, I stood beaming in the middle of the floor and was stunned to see a cat-sized roach climb along one of the walls, from out behind the stove. Never in the six months I’ve lived here have I seen a cockroach, and yet here was one, as if to say: Now that you’ve spent $17,000 to redo this kitchen, we’re going to come out of the walls and really have some fun.
I put out traps and take advantage of the monthly exterminator that my building offers. But to me, the scariest Halloween would be one filled with cockroaches underneath the bed covers; give me the Boogey Man any day. TF