Pass the Smelling Salts, Please
I read somewhere once that there are two kinds of people in the world: those who scream their heads off when they are scared and those who are quite literally dumbstruck by fear.
I know exactly which type I am. About a hundred thousand years ago, during the part of our honeymoon that we spent at a Club Med in the French West Indies (don't ask), Zach and I both participated in what I guess were called "circus arts." One such art, the trapeze, kind of fascinated me. I was a gymnast as a kid, and I thought I might be able to dredge up some muscle memory from my years of acrobatics and put it to use up there—perhaps not with the greatest of ease, but maybe with a bit of a head start.
Zach, having zero background, nonetheless was an absolute natural on the trapeze. Buried somewhere in our basement are some really incriminating photos of him in the special end-of-the-week show in which he was recruited to appear. I have no doubt that the words "red spandex tights" will cause him to blush retroactively for the rest of his life.
Meanwhile, the ex-gymnast over here displayed a paralyzing fear of flying through the air. I somehow managed to climb up to the rickety little platform way up in the sky, and I even grabbed onto the trapeze, but I could not make myself jump off into the nothingness before me.
So, of course, I was pushed.
That's what they do with people like me, and it's actually very effective. As soon as I started swinging, my body reflexively began to do all of the steps in the little routine I had seen over and over from the safety of the ground. To somebody down on that ground, I probably looked like a real pro—kicking my legs out and back, looping my knees over the bar and hanging upside down (no hands!!), and then doing a half-flip into the net.
The truth is that I was completely panic-stricken, rendered mute by abject fear. When I finally lowered myself from the safety net to the grass below, my knees nearly gave out as I tried to stand. I practically collapsed into Zach's congratulatory embrace.
There was another fearful flier at Club Med that week. She, too, had to be pushed. The difference was that once she was off the ledge, most of her body froze. Instead of doing the dorky little routine, she just hung on for dear life, kicking her legs like crazy and screaming bloody murder. She was right above the net but way too scared to let go. Eventually, her arms gave out, and she fell to safety.
I kind of envied that other woman. She freaked out in the moment, but once the danger had passed, she was fine. I tend to do the opposite. I usually perform well in a crisis and then fall apart once the cavalry arrives.
I'm not sure that the cavalry has arrived, exactly, but it does feel like the multiple crises that have comprised my life are at least starting to abate. My dad is out of danger and is slowly improving. Zach is back from L.A. And I've gotten a bit of a respite from the steamroller that is J-school.
It should come as no surprise, then, that my knees feel like they might buckle at any time.
Adrenaline, that miracle drug, has deserted me.
And withdrawal is a very painful thing.
I know exactly which type I am. About a hundred thousand years ago, during the part of our honeymoon that we spent at a Club Med in the French West Indies (don't ask), Zach and I both participated in what I guess were called "circus arts." One such art, the trapeze, kind of fascinated me. I was a gymnast as a kid, and I thought I might be able to dredge up some muscle memory from my years of acrobatics and put it to use up there—perhaps not with the greatest of ease, but maybe with a bit of a head start.
Zach, having zero background, nonetheless was an absolute natural on the trapeze. Buried somewhere in our basement are some really incriminating photos of him in the special end-of-the-week show in which he was recruited to appear. I have no doubt that the words "red spandex tights" will cause him to blush retroactively for the rest of his life.
Meanwhile, the ex-gymnast over here displayed a paralyzing fear of flying through the air. I somehow managed to climb up to the rickety little platform way up in the sky, and I even grabbed onto the trapeze, but I could not make myself jump off into the nothingness before me.
So, of course, I was pushed.
That's what they do with people like me, and it's actually very effective. As soon as I started swinging, my body reflexively began to do all of the steps in the little routine I had seen over and over from the safety of the ground. To somebody down on that ground, I probably looked like a real pro—kicking my legs out and back, looping my knees over the bar and hanging upside down (no hands!!), and then doing a half-flip into the net.
The truth is that I was completely panic-stricken, rendered mute by abject fear. When I finally lowered myself from the safety net to the grass below, my knees nearly gave out as I tried to stand. I practically collapsed into Zach's congratulatory embrace.
There was another fearful flier at Club Med that week. She, too, had to be pushed. The difference was that once she was off the ledge, most of her body froze. Instead of doing the dorky little routine, she just hung on for dear life, kicking her legs like crazy and screaming bloody murder. She was right above the net but way too scared to let go. Eventually, her arms gave out, and she fell to safety.
I kind of envied that other woman. She freaked out in the moment, but once the danger had passed, she was fine. I tend to do the opposite. I usually perform well in a crisis and then fall apart once the cavalry arrives.
I'm not sure that the cavalry has arrived, exactly, but it does feel like the multiple crises that have comprised my life are at least starting to abate. My dad is out of danger and is slowly improving. Zach is back from L.A. And I've gotten a bit of a respite from the steamroller that is J-school.
It should come as no surprise, then, that my knees feel like they might buckle at any time.
Adrenaline, that miracle drug, has deserted me.
And withdrawal is a very painful thing.
posted by Jody Rosen Knower at 7:01 PM
1 Comments:
I'm with you. I go mute when I'm terrified and I have often envied the ones who "get it out", cuz I tend to collapse later like you.
On a separate note: Have you seen the movie "Strange Brew"? Remember when they are in the "mental hospital" that is run by Vincent Price and they are in this padded room wearing straightjackets and they play "STEAMROLLER!!!"--they basically roll over eachother while shouting that word. I thought of that scene when you described J-school.
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