Put Your Big Girl Panties On.

Basements. Basements are not all that common in California...at least not that I'm aware. Every basement I have ever been in has been finished to look like a room, in which case it is then referred to as a "den."

Basements. The word alone gives me the hibity jibities.

Basements. We have a basement. Ours houses all of our landlords furniture cast-aways, including a crate of old playboy magazines, retro chairs, paintings of demonic looking kittens, bathtub bubblers, and mini ovens. It is also where our washer and dryer are housed, as well as the only way to get into the garage from inside of the house, which houses our trash cans

Basements. I am afraid of basements.

Because of this, Any time I want to do laundry Shawn has to accompany me.

"Hey, Em, could you go switch the laundry?"

I look at him like a small child looks at their parents for reassurance after learning about the Boogie Man.

"I'll stand at the top of the stairs..." he says, trying to coax me.

My fear remains piercing him through my eyes.

"Alright, I'll go with you," he always replies, defeated by my irrational fear.

It's musty. It's dark. It's infested with spiders, bugs, and who knows what other kind of creepy crawlers.

I managed to trek into its dark cold depths on my own once, but had to call my mother in case the monster I KNOW resides down there should decide that I would be a tasty mid-day snack.

He's lurking....
Maybe he ate my big girl panties, and that's why I'm unable to put them on to go down there by myself...