An "Escalated" Fear

For close to ten years, I have been petrified of….alright, quit smirking, ESCALATORS!

Every time I would see one, I would get a sinking feeling in my chest, and get an inordinate urge to run…in the opposite direction.

The embarrassment was crucifying.

To cover up for my sore loss of face each time I would be within a mile of one, my mind would roll into auto-mode, thinking of alternatives – all to keep from stepping up or down those frightening monstrous creatures.

It’s not that I didn’t try.

Family, friends, colleagues, juniors – all tried, on some level or the other, to trick me into getting onto one of them, all to no avail though.

It was an oft-repeated scene, the aftermath of which would leave me pink-cheeked, face a deep crimson hue, and maybe some exasperated expressions of people accompanying me.

Oh, and yes – how can I forget the amused looks that some people wore.

So while my mind would freeze upon seeing one of those moving machines, people of all ages would effortlessly step on them, and go about doing what they were doing - laughing, talking, holding hands and packets…

This, when I would marvel at their “guts” to get onto one of those mean machines, the ones which scare(d) the bejesus outta me, and which caused me to break out into a cold sweat. The alternatives were two - huff and puff my way up flights of stairs, or become a sniffer dog, on the lookout for the nearest blessing – an elevator.

The predominant fear at the back of my mind was always twofold, and never pleasant:

a) I would fall into an abyss of metal, and be maimed for life, or worse, pulverized beyond recognition
b) I would be sucked into the machine into a black chasm, with no hope of ever being with those I love

Those days were indeed blessed when the escalators at a mall or theater were turned off, making me give a wild Whoopee of joy, and bound across it, the very picture of confidence.

On all other days, my carefully-guarded face would belie the enormous distress I experienced.

So yesterday, when TOOMA suggested, yet again, that I should be a brave gal (Ha! Fat chance!), and step onto those (un)safe moving flight, my reluctance was palpable for all to see. A try at putting my foot on the shifting mechanism seemed nothing less than Herculean.

I stepped back, tears of humiliation and utter mortification glistening in my eyes. Shame-faced, I made my way to the nearby elevator, waiting for it to come to my rescue, like a faithful puppy, as it had on so many other occasions.

And then it hit me.

The strong wave of self-scorn.

With an unnatural jerk and a long stride, I clasped TOOMA’s hand, much to his surprise.

Another trip back to the horrifying machine.

Heart in my mouth, I gingerly stepped onto it. Clutching TOOMA’s hand in a death-grip, we descended….

And stepped off at the foot.

Two minutes of silence.

Thumping heartbeats, a racing pulse, and a flushed face gave away the assortment of feelings I was running through.

The sense of achievement and exhilaration that followed thereafter though, totally made it worth it.

Let me keep the ascent on an escalator for another day.

Hopefully, that shouldn’t be too difficult…Touché.

And to all the mean people who laughed at me – go ahead! Eat crow!

(Though I still think that if I were to ever land up in Hong Kong, I would give their escalators-going-up-the-side-of-mountains-and-promising-a-breathtaking-view a miss...

Aww come on! Don’t scoff. I’m only a mortal…)