Exit Stage Left

When I was a little girl I was scared of everything. When we lived in Elko I'd fall asleep listening to the radio (1240 AM--K-E-L-Kaaaaaayyy ) and every night at around 2:00 a.m. they'd play a PSA, "Crimestoppers." The lead-in and out music was creepy, the stories mostly lame about some liquor store being robbed, or some bicycle being stolen, but the haunting music and of crimes against my neighbors would inevitably lead me to believe that I was going to be raped and pillaged in the top bunk on the second story of 2059 Griswold Drive. I could never go back to sleep, even with my then-angelic baby brother sleeping three feet below me. When I'd go visit my dad during the summer time, being in an unfamiliar house was almost more than I could handle. My stepmother, God bless her, would sit with me on the edge of the couch every night holding the milk and cookies until I'd eventually nod off to sleep.

When I got to be about 14 or 15 I had a conversation with myself (if you know me, you know I do this a lot) and I decided that I just couldn't be afraid of the unknown anymore. I dove deep into myself and found my courage. I know it seems strange, and probably a bit unbelievable, but since I've found my inner courage fear rarely comes to the forefront of my mind. I'm generally cautious about where I go and what I do, but I refuse to live my life in fear. Maybe the fear transformed itself into guilt or nervousness, but out and out fear? It's rare.

Tonight I was at work late, filming some commercials (sounds more exciting than it is) and had about an hour break to go grab some dinner during Act 1. It was dusk, just getting dark outside and while I walked the three blocks to Subway I found myself a little on edge. Here I am, in downtown Denver with hundreds of people milling about and I found myself constantly looking over my shoulder. I was scared.

The guy in front of me in line, clearly strung out on drugs and probably homeless, was $.20 short for his sandwich. He didn't even ask me for the money, but I reached in my wallet and grabbed the only cash I had: a $1 bill. I handed it to him, because I am a nice person, or at least was in this instance. He didn't even say "thank you" at first and I was a little put-off and then he got a little weird, getting real close to me and whispering, saying how nice I am and how thankful he was. I just backed up and nodded saying, "you're welcome," but honestly I was a little weirded out. I didn't think he was necessarily dangerous, but my ears perked up, for sure.

I walked out of the "restaurant" (and I use that term loosely) and looked to be sure the coast was clear; that the weird-o "mall rat" wasn't around and I walked back to the complex in peace. I wasn't scared, I didn't feel fearful and I didn't look over my shoulder once. Maybe my earlier fear was reminding me to be on my toes, as sometimes I tend to get a little lax in my vigilance, but then again, maybe my inner-courage was just on dinner break, too.