At the age of seven, I suffered a traumatic event that still haunts me to this day: I was tickled to the point of peeing my pants by someone that I was supposed to trust, my older brother. As you can imagine after this horrific incident, every time someone even attempted to make a go at my underarms, which is where I just happen to be the most ticklish, I would tense up and pray to whatever heavenly being that handles pee prayers (I wonder what qualifications you need to get the job of pee prayer overseer and what is your official name, The Overpeer?!) that this person would sense my terror and just back away slowly from the danger zone with their hands visible at all times.
|So help me god, I will DESTROY the man who does this to me|
My teen years were the worst. Teenage guys’ version of flirting was no longer pulling your hair or throwing applesauce at you. Oh, no. These boys poked, touched, and tickled you ALL THE TIME. So not only was I going through the whole awkward teenage I-want-to-be-a- part-of-a-clique-but-still-be-an-individual crisis, but I walked around with steel plates tucked under my arms in the most nonchalant, don’t-pay-any-mind-to-me way. Peeing your pants at seven is nothing compared to peeing your pants at 16, especially when you are in the middle of the hallway in-between classes. Hello, lifetime of therapy!
As an adult now who finds it becoming progressively harder to hold my pee for long periods of time, the thought of ticklers still roaming around in hipster 20-something bodies scares the shit out of me. I feel like whenever I go on first dates, I must throw my Pteronophobia into the conversation. “Oh, you went to China over the summer? How nice. I hear the Chinese hate being tickled just like me.” Smooth, I know.
Instead of tickling me, buy me a drink. This way I can go to bars without having to worry about if my jeans make my adult depends look fat.