I was with my sons yesterday and my oldest son suggested we go to a haunted house for Halloween. So we went. Because I’ve become my father and I almost always do things that my sons suggest we do. My sons can pretty much talk me into doing just about anything–provided that it’s not too expensive or too dangerous.
After last night, I realize that about the safest place you can be in America is a haunted house, despite its eerie appearance and all the blood and gore. I must admit that I wasn’t too thrilled about going to a haunted house since I recalled my traumatic first and only trip to a haunted house in the third grade that was sponsored by the eighth graders. We were guided through it blindfolded. I was fine until someone grabbed my hand and forced it–yes, I instinctively resisted–into a bowl of something slimy. I could feel whatever was in the bowl slithering between my fingers. A voice informed me that I was touching Frankenstein’s brain. I wasn’t really afraid. Okay, I was afraid to laugh and hurt anyone’s feelings because I wasn’t afraid after touching dead brain matter. My best friend Patrick later told me that the brains were really just spaghetti. I never went to a haunted house ever again.
Anyway, I had fun at the haunted house last night because I got to see exactly how brave my sons were. Not! They were fraidy cats! When it was our turn to go in, they insisted that I go first. I didn’t even get scared! Okay, I did get startled whenever someone slammed open a door as he or she in all his or her glorious blood gore jumped out at us. But I wasn’t really scared. Not really. I mean it was just the loud noise that made me jump. Kind of like when I saw Halloween at the show when it first came out. The movie didn’t scare me at all. Except when the entire audience of the sold-out show screamed in unison and my date dug her fingernails into my thigh. But except for those five or six times, I have never gotten scared!