Scooby-DOOn't Bother Me None

I went Whitewater rafting in the Poconos this weekend. My friend asked me to go at the last minute and I agreed on a whim. The Great Outdoors is not my thing, and I can’t swim a lick. Why I considered Whitewater rafting is beyond me. Character flaw #24: Impulsive. I paid sixty bucks, secured my spot and freaked OUT for a week prior to the trip. All I could imagine was our rocky raft ride ending with us sailing off Niagara Falls. Not likely in Pennsylvania, but who knows for sure? For the next seven days I made it my mission to research everything about Whitewater rafting to clear up any misconceptions I had about the activity. Most fear stems from the unknown, right?

I googled Whitewater rafting and found tons of information about the history, logistics and potential DANGERS of whitewater rafting. As usual the negatives were all I could focus on. I called the facility a hundred times and they assured me that the Poconos had no waterfalls and I would be fine. That wasn’t good enough. My aquatic fear/handicap has never stopped me from snorkeling or jet sking in the middle of the ocean; and I have 100% faith in life vests, but I still can’t help my nerves. My friends nicknamed me “Scooby Doo” because I’m afraid of everything they consider adventurous. They tease me mercilessly whenever I have reservations about participating in a thrilling activity, but whatever. Fear- especially about dying- is a perfectly healthy emotion. The feeling of my stomach dropping is something I can do without. Panic is what I do. Panic is never good in a dangerous situation; therefore, I choose to avoid them whenever possible.

Obviously I survived Whitewater rafting. I’ll even admit that I had a ton of fun doing it. After the trip my friends were all like, “See, see- It was no big deal. Nothing to be afraid of.” Nonsense statements like that (just like the empty words of sorrow during times of death) don’t make me feel any better. I enjoyed my experience and am a little proud for accomplishing something new, but I don’t feel like any more of a woman for Whitewater rafting. I could have still cracked my skull on the jagged rocks out there or drowned in the river if my ankle got caught on some underwater bramble. My fear could have easily been justified.

I wish my friends would just shut up about me being afraid to try stupid extreme stuff. It’s just not me. They think they’re so tough and exciting for wanting to go sky diving, jump off cliffs and ride roller coasters. Knock yourself out. As a matter of fact they probably might do just that. Just leave me alone for not wanting to cheat death or have pre-mature heart palpitations. I find it very interesting that they are “brave” enough to try Bungee Jumping, but scared to death of trying a new hairstyle in FEAR of looking "different;" or talking back in FEAR being judged; or ending a bad relationship in FEAR of being alone. None of those things bother me much. Who’s the real Scooby-Doo, bitches?