i was leaving work today and hopped on the elevator to go down to the main floor and then take two flights of steps down to the lower level back entrance. my ride stopped short of the main floor and i picked up a few passengers. among them was what we will call a relatively portly fellow. the size of gentleman whose regular breathing was quite labored. almost to level of concern.
we both exitted the elevator car and my hope was that he was going to turn right toward the escalators, but he turned left to the stairs. walking behind him, a pit began to grow in my stomach. as he lollygagged down the first flight, others pulled away and i was left for the last flight all alone in the stairwell, descending…
my fear? that when his inevitable massive coronary hits, i am going to be his only salvation.
my last first aid training was sophomore year of college… FIFTEEN YEARS AGO. so i doubt that red cross card is still valid. besides the fact that all i remember the fifteen to two compressions to breathes ratio that they taught me in high school first aid. two fingers above where the rib cage meets the solar plexis or something, heel to palm. i don’t know… but i have this fear that an obese person is going to be dependant upon me saving their life eventually. and with the growing statistics in the US, my odds are only increasing.
but there are other factors that scare me a little about heavier set folks. the elevator ride also triggered a tinge of claustrophobia for me. at least with a bunch of people, i can fight my way through. a lot of smaller things are easier to get through than one large thing.
but that isn’t the only thing that brings about anxiety in small spaces for me. sometimes just simply covering my ears will do it. a scissor hold in wrestling, trying to smother me under a pillow, or heaven forbid, the closing of ones legs around my head in an intimate setting… guh.
a few of my old co-workers became aware of my claustrophobia and tested it in the most unexpected of manners. fucking revolving doors. not only do they test a sort of social anxiety with the follow the pack through the robotic mechanism and the fear of my lack of coordination and timing having one close on me, but for the brief time that you are doing your civic exitting/entering duty (hehehe) you are encased in a glass tomb!
once, i had thought i was going to meet my maker when a rather bulbous woman who apparently never got the rules memo on revolving door use tried to jump in the same compartment as me and then proceeded to get her purse stuck in the door. she kept trying to push forward and pull her purse along, only wedging it in further. as my life began to flash before my eyes and visions of her getting hungry and killing me for food before firefighters were able to break the glass and free us crossed my mind, i snapped at her… “ma’am you have to go backwards and free your purse, stop pushing forward!” in what was apparently a revelation to her, she heeded my advice, but then proceeded to stay in the compartment with me to get out of the building. to date, that was the closest that i came to having to claim self defense in a murder trial.
so, bigger people scare me. but at the polar opposite, so do really small people. little people as it were…
you see, the shortest i remember myself being was about five foot one. and i think that was about fifth grade. five four at the middle of seventh grade. six foot by the end of eighth grade. yes, i have heard every joke possible about the onset of rapid flowing water and my pantlegs, wet, being undesireable. but with great height come great responsiblity… and an elevated field of vision. so as a teenager walking briskly through a mall, i didn’t see the little person that i tripped over.
its not the little hands or oddly porportioned bodies that scare me about little people. it is that i might embarass myself and in turn, them. i sure as hell don’t want to be put in a position where i have to pick them up… shit.
rubberbands outstretched and pointed at my face. don’t fucking do it. its not cool. its not funny. even if i AM wearing glasses, you could still take out my eye. i am a pacifist, but i will turn violent with the threat of a rubberband. pull a knife on me, we will see. but you start with that rubberband shit and think it is funny… its on.
dying naked. yes, there is something to be said for going out in the throes of passion, but let’s be realistic. if you die naked its probably going to be slipping in the tub or tripping over your boxer leg while trying to put on drawers and banging your head on something. and i don’t care how many sit-ups and push-ups i do for the rest of my days, none of that is going to make my twisted naked body look good in a lifeless mass when somebody finally finds me.
clowns. why would any rational adult in their proper frame of mind put on brightly colored ill fitting clothes, a rainbow wig, paint their face white and outline their eyes, nose and mouth in red and think that is fun? its donwright creepy. thankfully i was blessed with never having a birthday party that contained a clown. mom or dad and i would have had to have some word then. “look, i am goofy and got big shoes on. and i got a flower that squirts water. i am fun!” unless you are hammered right now, there is no excuse for you behaving this way.
which brings me to another point. REALLY drunk people. yes, i am aware that from time to time, i have been one of them. alcohol and i are no strangers. but no matter how shithousefacedschmammered i get, if there is someone worse, it freaks me out. when the faculties have left them, coordination is not their friend, and the littlest thing sends them into an inebriated and incomprhensible rage? that is scary shit. logic is a thing of the past and you have no earthly idea who or what you are dealing with. i may look like their third grade teacher who paddled them for not learning their times tables and they want to settle the score now that they are older and bigger. i have no clue. but i sure as hell do not want to stick around to see the melee.
oh, and snakes…