Everyone has fears and most of those fears serve a purpose: keeping us from doing stupid things. Yet, we all have that New Age nuisance in our lives who encourages us to face our fears. A perfect example is Ben from The Bachelor. Last night he forced a woman who is afraid of heights to jump from a helicopter into a 500-foot-deep pool of water, and another woman who is afraid of sharks to swim with, naturally, sharks.
Beyond the obvious production value of these asinine feats, there is romantic logic at work. Doing something dangerous raises your heart rate and releases adrenaline. It naturally bonds you to the person guiding, encouraging, or protecting you. Once the fear is overcome and the feat is accomplished, there’s a foolish feeling that together you can achieve anything.
Sometimes the fear is baseless and silly. When Ben and one of the ladies were dropped onto a deserted island, she expressed fear and concern. Most of us were aware they were not actually alone, as somebody had to be there to hold the fucking cameras. Right? (Sorry, I haven’t had my nap yet.)
If roles were reversed and I was being encouraged to face my fears by The Bachelorette, things would go down a bit differently.
“Hello, Phil. On this date, we’re going to climb to the top of the Golden Gate bridge.”
“Oh, that’s a good one. You have fun. I’m heading to Napa. Let me know when you’ve crossed that bridge.”
“I realize you’re not a great swimmer, Phil, but let’s snorkel with sharks and stingrays.”
“That’s about as close as I’m going to get to touching a murderous fish.”
“Oh, look! It’s a spider. I think it’s a tarantula. Let’s play with it and name it.”
“Let’s leave it alone and instead I’ll name you. How about ‘Whoretney?'”
“Surprise! We’re going to dive and catch our own lobsters.”
“No, you’re going to dive and catch our dinner while I blog about how I got stuck with such a prehistoric putz.”
“Let’s ride bikes into a village where nobody speaks English.”
“Great idea, Lance. I’ll hold the camera while the savages have their way with you.”
“Let’s go skinny-dipping! It will be so romantic.”
“I’m sorry, do you not see the four (high definition, no less) cameras behind us? I may have a semi-firm tush, but nobody wants to see my bouncing nad bag as I run into the ocean for cover. Plus, you’ll probably hang all over me, causing alternating shrinkage and growth which will eventually lead to my being dragged out to sea by the undertow as I drown on national TV. In other words, not happening, Sugarbean.”
If you really want to help me overcome my fears, ladies, imagine I’m afraid of dying from over-ejaculation.