I walked into another nursing home, ready to perform big band standards for the aged residents. I was excited, a little nervous and sweating a lot (nursing homes are always too warm), then it hit me. I breathed in again to confirm. Yep. Orange. They must have just wiped the furniture with Pledge or something. I'm sure they didn't mean to create an off-putting environment for me, but I've got this crazy thing about orange.

For most people who suffer from chrysophobia (yes, it's a real condition) it is just the color orange that repulses them, but I can't stand the taste or the smell of orange, as well as the color. I am grateful to not have it as bad as those who can't even watch the sun set or rise — I usually focus on the reds and pinks anyway.

It all started when my Grandma, bless her heart, fed me Donald Duck orange juice with pulp in it. The chunks of orange meat sliding down my throat used to make me gag. I soon lost any appetite for oranges and any other food that remotely tasted like them. Within a short span of time, I came to dislike all citrus smells too. The color followed soon after. I remember that there was a time in my life when I didn't mind orange, but I don't know exactly when the change happened.

I realize that this fear is irrational. I know that it can be annoying to my friends when I see them in an orange t-shirt and cringe, even though their hair happens to be totally on point that day. I've had many heated discussions about it with significant people in my life. They've either not understood, thought it was a joke or some of them might actually think I'm insane.

None of the conversations I've had about it have changed the fact that I just don't like orange, but life is full of the color. Sunsets are orange. Construction zones are littered with it. Some of my favorite books have orange covers. Fall leaves are an array of reds, yellows and oranges. The space shuttle's external fuel tank's orange provides a handy contrast to the blue sky. The worst is my straw at Dunkin' Donuts.

So, rather than hiding in my room, protected from the onslaught of orange items, I live my life among the things whose scent, taste and color scream at me. I only wish I could vacation to the moon during October. I understand how strange it is and I do want to live peaceably with those who make the life choice to wear orange, but I still get anxious when my nemesis color is present.

I smiled at the nurse who had led me to the room where I would perform, thanked her and asked for a glass of water. I sang. The audience clapped. We all had a good time. I even got a kiss from one of the ladies who cried during my rendition of "Some Enchanted Evening" and I eventually forgot about the lingering scent. But, approach me tomorrow morning with an orange mug in your hand and I will avoid looking at it.

If you're interested in more information about this condition, here's a link to a commercial I made about this phobia: