At work the other night, a guy came in with a growler and asked me to fill it with lager, and I offered him a six-pack because they’re $10 cheaper.
“That’s okay,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I have a phobia of cans.”
“That sounds awful,” I said. “Going to the grocery store must be fucking traumatizing.”
It sounded like bullshit, but the way he leaned forward when he said it made me think for a second it might be true. So I went into the back and googled “fear of cans.”
My search didn’t come up with anything, though I was pleased to find purinsumphobia — the fear of trash cans — and anapsytikophobia — the fear of soft drinks. There’s also canaphobia, but that’s the fear of Canada, and it feels made up.
Later, when I recounted the story to my co-worker, she put her hand on her hip. “That’s awfully ableist of you to offer him cans like that,” she said. “You really should be more sensitive to peoples disabilities.”
I Don't Belong Here. 