We've all known people who have a fear of something that most people find easy to deal with. There's the usual fear of heights and tight spaces, possibly brought on by some childhood experience, but the list of phobias recognized in the world is positively staggering. There is actually a website that lists the conditions and corresponding "phobia" name for everything you could possibly imagine. For instance, the name for fear of being too close to high buildings is called Batophobia. Unless there were bats flying around the building or one had been scared by Batman, I can't quite understand how the name applies to the fear. Wouldn't structurophobia or even masonryophobia give a clearer meaning?
As I was scrolling through this long, long alphabetized list of phobias, I noticed that there were many names that quite simply defined the condition. Like the one for fear of taking tests is Testophobia.....makeses sense to me. The fear of words is Verbophobia. Again pretty self explanatory, although it does leave the question of whether one is just afraid of verbs or is just as phobic about nouns and adjectives. There's even a name for fear of phobias.....yep, you guessed it....Phobophobia.
There was one glaring ommission in the list though. It's a fear I developed growing up and one that haunts me to this day. It began as a small child when after every meal my mother would reach for one of the multiple small empty margarine containers that occupied an entire cabinet and proceed to fill them with small quantities of whatever happened to be left at the end of the meal. It could be a scoop of mashed potatoes, 2 tablespoons of corn or lima beans or even one lone dinner roll. Every last morsel was packed into a container and stored in the refrigerator. Now I can understand the waste not, want not concept but it can be taken too far. These containers would sit in the refrigerator for days, and sometimes weeks or months. If we were lucky, some of the little tubs would get hidden behind a larger object and go unnoticed until they began resembling a science experiment. I won't confess to guiding the tubs into a hiding place but sometimes you have to move things around a little when you're looking for something in a crowded refrigerator.
Now, my mother's little leftover collection may not seem frightening to the average person but to this day, the words "Do you want to keep the rest of this?" uttered by anyone holding a small plastic storage container can send me screaming into the streets.
The real problem began when I innocently inquired one Friday evening what we were having for dinner. My mother replied "Mustgoes". I looked at her in total confusion and asked her what that was. Her answer " It means all leftovers must go" sent a chill down my tiny spine. I had gotten used to never knowing what cereal may come falling out of a box marked Cheerios since my mother tended to mix the remaining small amounts of cereal into one box on a relatively consistent basis, something she now denies ever doing but both of my sisters and my brother can vouch for the truth of this happening. It seemed the only cereal box that was sacred was the corn flakes since that was my father's daily breakfast and I'm pretty sure he wouldn't enjoy the WheatiesKixShreddedWheat we kids found in our bowls.
So, when my mother called out that dinner was ready on Mustgoes night, I slowly trudged into the kitchen dreading what concoction awaited me. Sitting quietly in my appointed place, I watched as she spooned out the vegetables she called succotash and the "stew" floating in gravy. The succotash was an amazing combination of corn, peas, green beans, beets, cabbage and other unidentifiable pieces of whatever vegetables had been residing in the refrigerator all week. The stew was even more difficult to figure out as it had chicken, beef, ham, and, I swear, corned beef and barbeque loaf all stirred into chickenbeefmushroom gravy. As I shuddered through this leftover dinner, I knew I would never be the same again.
As an adult, I can finally choose what, if any, type of leftover appears in my refrigerator and to perfectly honest, there aren't any. I heartily encourage any dinner guests to please feel free to take the rest of the ham or macaroni home with them since they enjoyed it so much. My friends and family know I seldom save the remains of a meal but I've never shared the secret of my fear with them since I felt sure they would think me slightly unbalanced. So I dilligently searched the phobia website for a name for my condition, only to be met with disappointment. Apparently noone else in the world suffers from the same fear of leftovers as I do so I've been forced to name it myself. Fear of leftovers is now called Mustgoesaphobia and believe me it's a terrible secret to bear. Mustgoesaphobics be not afraid.....all leftovers MUSTGO into the trashcan where they can do no more harm to young psychies!