My History With Escalators

Many people have phobias in this world. Some are afraid of heights. Some are afraid of roller coasters. Some are afraid of flying. These all sound like typical phobias. I believe every one of us know at least 1 person with some type of phobia. Me? I have my own little phobia. I am afraid to go down escalators.

It all started when I was a young child. I don't recall having a bad experience on an escalator (though I'm sure my mother has something to do with it- come on, she put a 6-year old on a roller coaster. Who puts a 6-year old on a roller coaster against their will?!). Anyways, I can recall taking trips to department stores with my family and them having to find a set of stairs or an elevator to go down. It's so weird. I can go up, but I cannot go down. I know, I'm a little strange.

Over the years, I have been able to conquer my fear of going down escalators. But my bravery comes in phases. I have surmounted some of the longest escalators in the Washington, D.C. subway system. I've gone up and down without a problem. But, unfortunately, my phobia returned with a vengeance one Sunday afternoon. I went to a football game in the Meadowlands. My brother was playing, so I drove from Philadelphia to northern NJ to attend the game. Have any of you ever been to the Meadowlands? Have any of you ever taken the escalator up? Yes, I said UP. This was the first time I had ever had a problem going up an escalator. I was on it and made the mistake of looking back. Now, I also have never had issues with height. What was happening to me?! I suddenly started to panic. (Writing about this brings back the painful memories.) I thought I would die, but I made it to the top, knowing that me getting on the escalator to come down was NOT an option.

Even with the aforementioned, I was still able to deal with my phobia, again, in phases. I could go shopping and if the moment moved me, I could go down an escalator, but there are also times where I can get to the escalator and just not be able to step on (to go down). This brings silly me to the present:

I am currently in and out of graduate school at the University of Ben Franklin. Some of the classes I take have quarter sessions. At the end of October (2005), I headed to the bookstore to purchase books for my class that had just begun. Now, for some reason, the University of Ben Franklin's bookstore keeps their course books on the second floor, requiring you to either take the escalator or elevator up. I've never had a problem because I had options, until this one embarrassing evening (it was approximately 7:30 p.m.). I step off the up escalator to see a sign saying: "Elevator out of service." I looked around and though: "Oh sh**! How am I going to get back down?" My only option was to go down the escalator, which I had never tried to do. I went into panic mode. As I walked towards the course books, I realized that the down escalator was not on. Can you imagine the sigh of relief I let out? So, I went to get my books and find a spanish/english dictionary for my sister. I was upstairs for about 45 minutes (I am a huge lollygagger), doing what, I don't know. Oh, yes. I was talking to the woman in the language area about what dictionary I should get for my sister. After deciding that I wanted to wait until one of the better dictionaries came in, I headed towards the down escalator. To my surprise, it was working. What was I going to do? I frantically ran back to the information desk in the course book section and asked the guy if the elevator was working. Why wouldn't it be? The escalator was back on. He said, "No." I looked at him, nervously and asked if there was a set of stairs I could go down. He said, "No." I then proceeded to tell him that we had a little problem on our hands. See, I have never had to tell anyone about my phobia because the elevator was always working. IT WAS MY LITTLE SECRET! How dare them repair the escalator and not the elevator? What if I was in a wheelchair? (Okay, I guess that's a moot point because if I were in a wheelchair, I would not have been able to get upstairs in the first place). For the first time in my life, I had to share my phobia with a complete stranger. He seemed empathetic. He went to supervisor to explain the situation. The supervisor came out and looked at me like I was crazy. He asked: "What's the problem?" I wanted to be like, "You know what the problem is," but I bit my tongue and simply explained the situation again. (I know the first guy explained the situation. He was simply trying to cause me more embarrassment. I would have told him about himself but I'm not stupid. He was my ticket downstairs.) I asked if there were stairs I could walk down. How could the bookstore at the University of Ben Franklin not have stairs! The supervisor called someone and 5 minutes later, this nice young man was there to take me down the stairs... is what I thought. I had to explain the situation, AGAIN. I think this guy was just being nosy though. So, we start walking and I realized we were headed towards the escalator. I stop dead in my tracks. I yelled: "I'm not getting on that!" The guy said: "I'm going to stop it." I smiled and proceeded. He carried my books and everything; as he listened to me explain how I usually don't have to tell anyone because the elevator is usually working. I'm walking down the escalator steps, smiling, because I'm happy that the situation had been resolved, to my liking. It only took a loud-mouth woman to yell from the top of the escalator, "What's wrong with the escalator now?!" to wipe that smile away. I was so embarrassed. The poor guy didn't know what to say, so he simply said: "Nothing." But, to my dismay, his answer was not good enough for the loud-mouth woman: "Well, why's it off again?" The guy said something to the extent of there being a situation (I can't remember- I was too embarrassed). Thank God, the loud-mouth woman backed off, but felt the need to stare at us walk down the steps. Why are people so nosy? Better yet, why do I have an escalator phobia?

Where'd It Go?!

A person I know, let's call her Fran, called me for some advice. She was driving on the interstate when she realized her shirt was dirty. Coincidently, she was on her way to the cleaners and the mall and decided she needed to take off the shirt she had on and replace it with one of the (cleaner) shirts she had in possession (the shirt was so dirty that Fran had a difficult time figuring out how this shirt made it back into her closest). I told her to stop at a fast food joint, changing the shirt in the bathroom. She proposed trying to change her shirt while driving on the interstate but sounded like she had abandoned this idea after I reminded her of how dangerous this was. So, Fran and I ended our call. Ten minutes later, my phone rang and it was Fran on the other end saying: "It's done!" Yes, Fran had changed her shirt on a busy interstate while driving 85 mph (in the fast lane no doubt). Now, Fran is one of the smartest people I know, but her mother did always say she lacked common sense. Fran believes only one person saw her during the change (which I think is wishful thinking- she needs to pray that that one person didn't attend her church). Oh, and of all bras she could have donned that day, she chose a green brassiere! What better way to say: "LOOK AT ME!"

After I told Fran how crazy and dangerous her escapade was, we ended our call. Ten minutes later, my phone rang again. FRAN! She sounds rather sad now. Apparently, the chain that she was going to the mall to have repaired was missing. It was in the pocket of the 1st shirt she had on and was nowhere to be found. I told her to take her time and look one more time before leaving the mall. I don't hear from Fran until 20-25 minutes later. She calls me back to tell me that she had gone back home, strip-searched her car (with cuts on her hands as proof) and still, no chain. She's sounding a little pathetic (and feeling really stupid) for her bone-headed decision to change her shirt while driving on the interstate. It wasn't even worth it to say I told you so. Poor thing.

Anyways, Fran suddenly changed the subject. See, Fran had decided to run her errands prior to showering that morning and suddenly started talking about how her butt was itching. I'm on the other end like... "WHAT?!" So, she's telling me she realized she didn't shower but... "Damn, my butt shouldn't itch this bad!" So, she strips to prepare to shower and guess what she finds in her butt crack... How it got there while wearing underwear with a secure elastic waist? Nobody will ever know. She did take the chain to the mall to be repaired... I never asked if she cleaned it.