Tuppephobia. Not to be confused with taphephobia: the fear of being burried alive. Tuppephobia is the fear of Tupperware. This may not accurately describe my exact disease, since I’m not afraid of the Tupperware itself. My fear stems from situations like this. No offense Mom, I’m sure every single kid that grew up in the 80’s and 90’s had a corner of the kitchen that looked like this, but I still have flash backs of putting away dishes at an early age and being completely overwhelmed by the landslide of plastic containers and lids. My entire being would cringe at the thought of digging through that cabinet of immeasurable chaos for just one matching set of Tupperware for the leftover mashed potatoes. Need two matching sets? Go fish.*
Fast forward to present day, and we have some minor marital strain on our hands. The cabinet in our apartment is slightly more organized, but when putting clean dishes away, I will gladly place every single item in its rightful position, but when it comes to the Tupperware, the Gladware and the Rubbermaid dishes. They end up in a nice neat pile on the counter, directly above their designated cabinet. My wife is less than appreciative of my lack of follow through in this area of domestic partnership. But its not my fault. All of those mismatched and unpaired containers years ago were damaged goods, and now so am I. I can’t be held responsible.
Do you suffer from Tuppephobia?
*Come to think of it, this might also explain my rediculously deep-seated distaste for left-overs. Huh.