I have shared with some people my strong dislike (one may even say phobia) of balloons. I can’t say for sure, but I have a few theories on this. I think it could stem from those games teachers made us play in school. Each child tied a balloon around their ankle and everyone chased each other around and tried to pop everyone else’s balloons while still protecting their own. I HATE that game. I always have. I used to poke the balloon, near where it’s tied, so it would leak rather than pop.
Or perhaps it stems from to a time before that even. I remember going to the circus and hating the sudden loud noises of the cannon (and balloons popping). It’s not the noise I dislike as much as the suspense leading up to it.
Which leads me to my final theory of the balloon fear. Since my earliest days in nurseries, I remember having a distinct abhorrence of Jack-in-the-boxes. They scared me. All I wanted to do was listen to a really great song (gotta love ’round and round the mulberry bush’), but there was that looming dread of the sudden popping up of Jack. I don’t like the ‘pop potential.’ It may never pop while I’m near it, but it might. It’s like a ticking time bomb (or Jack in the box). It could go at any second. How do I know?
I just do not like balloons. The colors are fine. The concept is fine. From a distance they’re fine. But large balloons blown up so tight their skin looks like it can’t stretch any farther, and dust could probably pop it, are the balloons I live in dread of. In balloon nightmares I walk innocently along until I feel balloons looming just behind me. They cast a colorful shadow on my joy because I never know when one might pop.
Oh balloons, why do you torment me?