222

With the Hallowed Holiday on its way, I have been trying to think of any scary stories I know to tell. I can never retell ghost stories very well, nor jokes, but how about hearing my quirky fear of the number 222.

It started in my English Lit. 101 class at college. As a freshman, our hippy professor's choice of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance was way over this young country girl from Anaconda, MT. I carried the book around and seriously tried to drag myself through it. The first day of discussion after a week of reading, I was lost when Mr. Hairy Philosophy Major started going on and on about, "the endless white wall that couldn't be reached but was omnipresent and drowning us." Whaaaat?? After this, I started having encounters with 222. I would look up from my Zen reading or other studying, or wake up in the middle of the night and the instant I looked at my digital clock, it would be 2:22. In the next two weeks, I had shopping totals come to exactly $2.22 or, and could not stop rolling anything but 2s on dice during a board game I was playing with friends. The last straw for me was when the English professor walked into class and his first words to us that day were, "Please turn to page 222." I remember gasping so loudly that half the class turned and looked at me. I really didn't know any of the other students, so I had to just duck my head and pray that the prof wouldn't ask me to explain. Even to this day, if I see that the clock in my car is 2:22, I hold my breath and pay extra attention to the road until it changes. I also can't set a heater or air conditioner to 22 degrees, and deliberately change it to 21 or 23. On the positive side, when or wherever I see 222, I flashback to these days of venturing. Mr. Hairy, but the way, ended up being a nice guy who gave me my first and last tennis lessons the following summer.