I realized recently that before I enter a bookstore, I have a habit of turning off the ringer on my cell phone. I was tiptoeing around a display of paperback bestsellers with ninja-like stealth when I began to think, “I wonder why that is? After all, this is a store not a library.”

But as I glanced around me, I came to the awareness that the bookstore really is practically a library. Everywhere I looked there were people sitting down deeply entranced by a text. To my right a woman’s brow furrowed as her eyes darted over the advice of a dating self-help book. By my elbow was an older man in tweed with a penchant for Dickens. To my left was a young man enjoying Stephen King and a cappuccino.

I wanted to yell, “Aha!” “Eureka!” or even “Gadzooks!” but couldn’t for fear of being shushed. I didn’t dare disturb the intellectuals pouring over each work of literature with admiration and reverence . . . but no apparent intentions to buy.

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Ok, I’ll admit it. When I was a child, I wanted to be a superhero just like any other little kid. I ran around the playground imagining I had super speed, tried to melt the nuns with my lukewarm heat vision, and attempted to take flight by jumping off my bed in my Wonder Woman underoos.

But that was then. This is now.

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Every person has his weaknesses and every person has his fears. It’s a fact of life.

I, for example, am afraid of the dark, spiders, Christopher Walken, and Christopher Walken breaking into my apartment in the dark to cover me with large, hairy spiders. Which leads me to my next point — some fears are completely rational while others . . . not so much. For me, it’s those irrational fears which are the most terrifying.

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