A post in which I sound like a priss

I have a bit of a phobia and, as you may likely assume, it is not entirely 'normal'. But then again which phobias are?

Wait. I take that back. Some phobias are in fact normal. I mean, I totally get why people are dramatically fearful of dark, hairy eight-legged arachnids, and I entirely understand why being lifted 1,000 feet above the ground leaves some feeling paralyzed. There is a reason why certain phobias such as these are notably common: they make sense. Spiders are gross and heights give you a sick feeling in your stomach. People should not like them. Period.

Get my point? END OF STORY.

So what is my phobia? Goodwill. Yes, folks. You heard right. I have a morbid fear of gently used donated items. This is nothing new either. I have been awkwardly afraid of the discount megastore since I was just a little girl.

Oh, the horror!

I spent a reasonable portion of my childhood with my grandma, either at her house or tagging along with her on various trips and errands. I typically enjoyed all of these trips, especially since my grandmother is void of the ability to say ‘no’ to a begging child (translation: she bought me a lot of stuff). There was but one place I loathed visiting and unfortunately it was one of my grandmother’s routine stops: Goodwill.

My grandmother would habitually drag me along with her to Goodwill so she could sort through their bin of second-hand sewing patterns- and when I say ‘drag’ I literally mean drag. I strongly vocalized to my grandmother my adamant disdain for the place but she didn’t care; she had sewing projects on her mind. I still debate as to whether or not this was child abuse.

That was me, a sad and abused child

Some of my detestation for Goodwill is a bit unexplainable. For instance, I get a mysteriously ill feeling every time I walk into the front doors of the store. It’s sort of like the feeling I imagine a person experiences when stepping foot into a house that is haunted by ghostly spirits. (Hi, I’m Clarissa and I’m super dramatic!)

I’ll save both of us the difficulty and instead focus on the reasons which I can explain, provided in numerical form.

1. I strongly believe that everything in the story, from the clothes to the books to the furniture, is completely contaminated by boogers and dust mites. As a child I would either refrain from touching anything in the store or frantically wash my hands after coming into physical contact with an item. Of course the latter would then require me to use the Goodwill bathroom (which I have yet an entirely separate phobia of); therefore, the safest bet has always been to keep my hands in my pockets at all times.
2. The majority of people in Goodwill are straight up weird with a capital “W”. This includes both the employees and the customers. Every where you look there are combovers, camel toes, tube socks and LA Gears. It goes beyond physical appearance, too. I personally cannot trust the mental soundness of anyone willing to buy and wear a used pair of shoes or, even worse, used UNDERWEAR. No, this time I am not exaggerating. Goodwill does in fact sell used underwear, or at least boxers, briefs and tighty whiteys. I saw the wretched rack with my own eyes, people.
3. One time my grandmother was checking out a blanket at Goodwill and when she unraveled it a huge spider came charging out in her direction. We both screamed and jumped around wildly because, well, spiders are scary- remember? Also, I’m 99.9% sure the spider was a fatal black widow, meaning my grandmother almost lost her life that day. In other words, Goodwill tried to kill my grandmother.
4. Another time at Goodwill, when I was approximately fourteen or so, I was followed around the store by a pedophile. Again, I am not exaggerating. That day my grandmother and I were approached by two Goodwill security officers and shown actual video surveillance of the prowling man. He had since left the store but we were still told to be wary in case he was lurking outside. Once being informed of the perv stalking her youthful granddaughter, my grandmother immediately wrapped up her shopping (THANK GOD) and we were escorted to her station wagon. The officers advised us to keep an eye out in case any vehicle begins following us and to call 911 if we sense any suspicious activity. From that day on I’ve refused to walk through Goodwill without mace and a switchblade. Ok, fine. That part is an exaggeration.

Anyway, there you have it: My 101 four reasons why Goodwill gives me the creeps. Perhaps surprisingly though, I actually mustered up the courage this past Saturday and visited the Tacoma Goodwill with B. I still refused to touch anything and openly gawked at all the shoppers that were fondling stained flannels and worn shoes, but it was definitely an unforeseen effort on my part. Naturally I rewarded my brave attempt with the purchase of an ice cream sundae… and, of course, a vigorous hand washing.