This weekend I won my last, decisive victory in the War on Terror. It’s over. My thanks to everyone who helped out - I really couldn’t have done it without you.

I’m not talking about the war on terrorists, or the “armed struggle against Islamist extremists,” or the “global spat against lawless assholes.” Those conflicts will take a lot of time and energy, they won’t have any definable endpoints, and frankly there’s not all that much that I personally can do about ‘em. The the War on Terror, at least my War on Terror, is now over.

The War really started for me, as it did for most Americans, on September the 11th, 2001. When I woke up that morning, the World Trade Center was the dominant physical attribute of my view down 3rd Street in Brooklyn. By lunchtime, it wasn’t. My nephew, who’d just turned two, came over that morning, and it was the day that he uttered what was to my knowledge his first-ever complete, original sentence, which is usually a pretty happy occasion. But sadly, that sentence, that day, was, “Buildings fall down.”

I’d sort of been hoping for, “You’re a terrific uncle, even if you are frequently preoccupied with your work,” or “You’ve inspired me to pursue a career in the arts, and I thank you for that.” Or, failing that, I’d have hoped for one of the classics like “See the doggie,” or “I want cake.” “Buildings fall down,” well, that’s a terrifying first sentence. I worried that what had just happened would keep happening, and then it would be only a matter of time before my nephew made the connection that he too lived in a building…

The War on Terror was on.

alert!

For the first few months, Terror was definitely winning. I watched the newspapers and news networks spinning one horrifying scenario after another, and I feared them all. They would tell me about the vulnerability of New York’s reservoirs and sure enough, a few nights later I’d find myself hesitating as I began to fill a glass from the sink, or worriedly wondering exactly how much anthrax a Brita filter was capable of removing (enough that I’d only get a mild case of anthrax? How bad exactly was a mild case?). Occasionally I’d look around a subway car and wonder if the guy at the end was about to gas us or blow us up. Terror had the upper hand whenever I flew as well, or at least every third or fourth flight, which is all it needed.

Terror was everywhere. The terrorists, I knew, could be anywhere. But they preferred deep, dark, secret places, caves and basements. I stayed above ground whenever possible, left lights on, and resigned myself to never again seeing the clothes I’d stored downstairs. This fear even wreaked havoc on my sex life - hell, I couldn’t even trust my own orifices, let alone the more numerous and capacious ones that women tend to favor. My very own ass could have been infiltrated by a miniature terror cell, after all - why would I want to go poking around in somebody else’s Tora Boras?

Maybe I’m exaggerating. But that’s what it felt like.

My first victory against Terror came a few months later. I was reading about the Patriot Act, which had passed a few weeks after 9/11, and I thought “Wow, is all that really necessary?”

The victories against Terror started to come more swiftly after that. Water became hydrogen and oxygen again, as opposed to a Big Glass of Fear. I realized that being suspicious of my fellow riders didn’t make the subway move any faster. If we were going to attack Iraq, I thought, it wouldn’t be because I personally was afraid of Saddam Hussein. Maybe his mustache, but that was my own personal phobia, not Terror.

By the time my wife and I drove across this great land to move to California, Terror was on the run. Nuclear, biological, and chemical weapons would have to be actually used on me or someone I knew before I would reach for a gas mask or radiation suit. Low-flying planes at night were now no longer Almost Definitely plummeting towards my bed. But it wasn’t ’til this weekend that I actually won the war.

I was at the movies Saturday, and I saw a preview for the completely tasteless upcoming film, “Flight 93.” The preview shows you all you need to know. Evil, nervous Arab guys hijack the flight, just like I’d pictured it happening to me on so many of the dozens and dozens of flights I’ve taken since 9/11. But as I was watching, I realized that for the past few months, whenever I’ve glanced forward on a plane and wondered if the guy in 14B was going to get up, take over the cockpit, and try to fly us into the Sears Tower or Mount Rushmore or the Dairy Queen national headquarters (I don’t know why I imagine this. Do they hate us for our ice cream?)… whenever I’d imagined that lately, it had been with resignation, not Terror. Oh well, I’d think, I’m just going to have to get up and do my best to overpower that guy and see if the other passengers and I can save the Sears Tower or the DQ and maybe even ourselves. What a drag.

So it’s over. Terror lost. Terrorism is still a tactic, and still a possibility. But for me it’s now a bummer, not a fear. It’d suck. We should do whatever we can to make sure it doesn’t happen to us too much. But I’m not willing to give up anything I value to protect myself from it. What would be the point of that? And the idea of sending hundreds of thousands of Americans overseas to fight and die so that I can be slightly less afraid of the possibility of something bad happening to me and mine… well, that just seems ridiculous.

It’s just me, I realize. I won the War. Other people have too, I’m sure, but they had to do it themselves. For me… I’m no longer on high alert. My condition is not orange, not yellow, not even the blue that America itself hasn’t enjoyed in the five years since the fear rainbow was invented. My personal condition is green. Here’s hoping all of yours are as well.

“Flight 93,” the Big Hollywood Movie, however? That’s terrifying.