I think it’s called the heeby-jeebies

We stayed overnight at my mother-in-law’s house for Christmas, and the next morning she was showing me how to make biscuits. (My daughter was given a cookie cutter set for Christmas that included a biscuit cutter.) Well, I was excited to learn how to make biscuits, because I can really appreciate the quality of a fresh homemade biscuit – topped with homemade sausage gravy, of course. But then she started describing the part where you roll it in the flour or something, and that’s when she lost me. “Oh no, I can’t do this. I’m not gonna be able to make these.” I’m standing in the kitchen, trying my very best at hiding my discomfort, but ultimately giving up and just moving away.

I just can’t do flour. It makes a small sound when it touches things that only freaks like me can detect. It sends shivers running down my spine. Even the thought of the sound creeps me out. I don’t know why, but it does. It’s been like that for me for as long as I can remember. I met someone once who understood this, only it was not flour that got him – it was the color teal (The 80’s must have been torture for him). My dear mother-in-law, shocked into disbelief at my reaction, asked my husband, “Did you know about this?”

“Yep” he offers, “she also hates sand.” And chalk and powdered sugar. Oddly, the brown and white sugars don’t bother me too much. We’ll call those tolerable.

It’s funny that my mother-in-law has known me for 18 years and she’s just now hearing about this quirky aversion of mine. A well-kept secret, I suppose. I guess the cat’s out of the bag now. Just hopefully not the flour bag.

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