Due to a crippling case of Aphrilophobia, I will not be available for human interaction Thursday.

This fear of April Fools’ Day, which has plagued me since childhood, stems from chronic worry that my deeply rooted naïveté, which almost always overrides reason, will be exposed.

And then people will laugh at me.

Year after year I greeted April 1 with nausea and solitude. While the other kids happily laughed along with the Platt twins as they tried to fool the teachers by swapping classes for the day, I lived in fear of being told there was something between my teeth. What if there wasn’t, and I believed them? What if there was, and I didn’t?

I gradually relaxed some as I aged, even helping my husband pull one over on his co-workers one time. For three or four hours we had them all believing he was going to model swimsuits at the local mall in a charity fashion show. I think they were all relieved when we eventually moved to Lawrence.

But karma came back to bite me a few years later when my friend’s husband called me, saying my friend had just had an emergency appendectomy. As Kent gave me the details about Polly’s (supposed) surgery, I glanced at the calendar. The date that day? April 1.

Now, Kent is one of the most gifted pranksters I have ever encountered. And he delighted in making me — one of the most gullible people on earth — believe every tale he ever told.

But this time, I was on high alert.

“Emergency surgery?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said, sounding just tired enough to be believable. “She should be home in the next day or two.”

“Mmm-hmm.” I was pretty sure this was leading to me offering to make dinner, showing up at their house with a pot roast and a pie that night, and finding Kent at the door yelling “April Fools!”

I decided to quiz him a bit.

“Who performed her surgery? Which floor is she on?” I asked, carefully walking the line between concerned and not-buying-it. But Kent had an answer for every question.

I hung up and paused for a moment, weighing the likelihood of Polly undergoing emergency surgery on April Fools’ Day, and decided to call the hospital for verification.

“Hi, I’m trying to reach a patient on the third floor…” I started. The operator offered to connect me. On hold, I marveled at how Kent had even gotten the hospital staff involved with his prank. And then Polly picked up.

“Hello?” she said weakly.

My gut hit the floor. This was far worse than having Kent laugh at me. Polly was really in the hospital. And I was really going to have to cook.

So if please understand if I don’t pick up the phone Thursday. It’s not you, it’s me. But it might be you. And that is a chance I cannot afford to take.