Balloon

Phobias, we all have them unless we are one of the chosen. I hate heights, that heebie-jeebie sucked into a vortex feeling starts in my calves and my joints lock. I was stranded on a boulder in the Lower Niagara Gorge because everything froze including a certain cerebellum and friends had to literally drag me off the rock. One step too far, I try to be brave and then the ahoogas go off in some foreign world contained deep within the reptilian brain, I lock up so well, you could put me in a Macy's window and drape seasonal clothing on me and I wouldn't move.

Ferris wheels. I love the horizontal view, but for Yahweh's sake, don't make me look down. The rotating sensation is panic inducing only until the car gets to the top and then if it rocks from momentum or the breeze, I lock up. Someone usually has to peel my fingers away from the bar back on earth. Funny thing is, I love an old roller coaster. Not that fricking Wild Mouse or crazy-ass Space Mountain, but a smooth coaster with a couple of anti-gravity drops. Then I talk real big when I get off, as if I just didn't finish screaming like a little girl over at the Ferris wheel and had to have an ice cream cone to calm down.

The most common thing that frightens the bejeesus outta me is an inflated balloon. I hate balloons. I'd rather let a mongoose make a nest in my hair and raise babies than have to be in a room with one balloon in the hands of another person. Balloons by themselves are okay, they are there as silent invited guests and fill space with a supposed gala charm. Then some moron gives one to a child who squishes it, beats on it, or lets it bounce against the sprayed spackle ceiling's sharp points. Or, I could be in line and a wild eyed woman is having twelve hundred of them blown up at the helium canister. As soon as I hear that whoosh, the fight not to claw a hole into the linoleum is on. Do you know how hard it is to act normal in a normal situation when the squirrels are loose?

I am one of the few who cheer when a balloon escapes, string and all, upwards, away from the owner. Yaaaay. Years ago, balloons were filled with plain air and sold on a thin dowel so it was like a grenade at the end of a rapier, and there was no way for the balloon to make a getaway. Toddlers would wave them about, bamming them against the stroller or on Dad's head if they were up on his shoulders. One of those burst, and I would do a standing backflip as if Khruschev just landed an H-bomb.

Before I was eight, one of the exciting occupations of the fifties was to save up boxtops and mail in for prizes. I got plastic rings, a cardstock Jiminy Cricket puppet, and a really fascinating selection of dinosaur balloons, stand-up shapes with cardboard feet. I loved dinosaurs, Mom had a set of Encyclopedias from the University of Knowledge with pictures of pleisiosaurs, duck-bills, stegosaurs, and brontosaurs. It was a special item to send for, as two dollars had to be included along with the boxtop. In those days it could take up to eight weeks--that's two months--to arrive, and two months in adult chronology is seventeen years to a kid.

They came and were large enough that Dad had to blow them up. I was fascinated with the process of the inked image stretching and expanding, and carefully took them to my room. The next day of course they had shrunk, as the porous rubber had allowed air to escape, becoming soft and wrinkled in spots. I undid the knotted ends and blew them back up to proper dino-proportion. A few days of this, and of course the balloons elasticity weakened until, while blowing up the duckbill, BAM! Right in the kisser. I saw stars. This must have been the event that scarred me for life, compounded by both Mom and Dad yelling about taking care of things.

All this came back to me in the adult world where I avoid balloons like the plague, but also Have To Inflate Tires On My Car every so often. People have been killed by overinflated tires. I think I might be next, the way I hop around the car giving little squirts of compressed air and measuring the pressure with the gauge. It can take up to twenty minutes for me to do this routine, for each tire is a container of it's own Black Death. I don't want to piss the tire off. The air is invisible, and you can only measure it after you put it inside the tire itself. I lead an exciting life.

I can fill up a balloon with bird seed to make a juggling ball, otherwise, there is not one good functional reason for a recreational balloon to exist. I do a balloon experiment in class, of course the children are not afraid of it, but as soon as they smell my fear they realize that they can chase me around with the balloon, and that I will run until I can safely maneuver the thing over to the sink and put a teensy hole near the stem and let the angry air out slowly. The kids laugh at me, but I tell them everybody's got something and then say surprise spelling quiz.

It is forecast to be a cool night, the regional low may hit 59 degrees. You might want a blanket near the foot of the bed, just in case. Sound sleep till morning. Love to all.