The thing at the bottom of the stairs

Adventure is my middle name and I'm not afraid of very much, easily throwing myself into most anything with abandon. I've been punished, sometimes mercilessly, by the universe for the more unintelligent actions I would have called 'fun' at one time and I've quite learned my lesson and cooled my heels a bit, settling quietly into my marriage and happily focusing on love and work and getting the heck out of here. But I have one terrible phobia, one desperate fear that holds me somewhat hostage in my own home.

I am afraid of our refrigerator.
I will not touch it anywhere except for the two inches of plastic handle near the top. Whatever is perched on top or housed inside must be plucked to safety with the utmost care because in India, when it comes to construction and all the particulars that go along with that, there seems to be no real understanding of the laws of electricity and a little (apparently unimportant) thing called grounding.

Every time I touch that damn box it shocks me, hard and deeply painful. On the rare occaision I accidentally brush the metal sides I stagger away cursing the landlord, the architect, the electrician, whoever comes to mind as partially responsible for my growing fear and such an idiotic safety hazard.

Hamid seems immune to this phenomenon, reaching into the fridge without a care in the world; rather than whine to him every time I want something I just drink my water and wine room temperature.