Soccer Mom or Kidnapper?

One of the really fun things about being a writer is having a great imagination. As with so many things, the great thing is also a terrible thing, and that holds true for having a great imagination as well. I can vividly imagine what it will be like when I sell my first book, or the places I will travel as a writer, or what the life would have been like 800 years ago when I sit on a hillside in England.
I can also imagine, in vivid detail, what might happen when the client that I've never met, and whose house I am on the way to, turns out to be a kook.

For 15 years, I worked as a small business consultant in northern Minnesota, going into people's homes or remote businesses located on gravel roads winding deep into the woods. I didn't worry, though, because we lived in a small town and I could always find someone who knew the new client to give me a reference.

Now I live in an area that has a population of over 200,000 (a bit more than the town of 3,000 that I was used to), and though I know people here, I don't know enough to be able to ask about someone who lives on the other side of the city and have any hope that my friends know that person.

So when I got my first consulting client here (southern California), I felt some trepidation about going to the person's house. I suggested we meet in a public place, a Starbuck's perhaps, but of course, the client's business information was on the desktop computer at her home, not on a laptop, and she had kids who would be home during the day, so she really preferred I come to her house. The fact that she had kids was a good sign, but I was still nervous to walk into a stranger's home.

I did my research on line, and found out what I could about the person and the business, which was a bit reassuring, but when the day came to go the house to do the consulting, my imagination started taking over. It began as I was choosing the necklace to wear with my outfit. As I was reaching for the one that usually goes with the sweater I had on, I started thinking about how thick the chain was and whether or not I could break it if someone tried to strangle me with it. Then I started thinking about what I would do if I got hit over the head the moment I walked in the door and locked into some dungeon of a room. I thought of the things in my purse that could be used as tools, but then realized that my purse would probably not be put in the room with me. The only solution, I decided, was to carry something on me in case my purse was taken away (which I did, just to be on the safe side, imagination be damned).

Every scenario possible went through my head of what could happen, ranging from being strangled by my own necklace, to being locked in a room in the basement and sold into the sex-slave industry, to being forced to strap explosives to my body and walk into a crowded store. All of it is really rather stupid. For one, who wants a middle-aged bookkeeping expert as a sex-slave? And why would terrorists be targeting our city to find suicide bombers when Los Angeles and San Diego are crawling with much better candidates than a place with an inordinate amount of housewives and soccer moms?

When I finally arrived at the client's house, I was relieved to find that she truly did have her kids at home with her, she looked like every other soccer mom in town, and she didn't appear to have any ulterior motives than to be sure her books were correct before she sent them to her accountant. Once again, my imagination was my own worst enemy, and there was nothing to worry about at all!

Then again,sometimes I completely agree with the person who said "You can't tell me worrying doesn't work. Most of the things I worry about never happen!"