Near Death Experience

Let me start this off by pointing out the fact that everyone is scared of something. Some people even have irrational phobias.

Such as alliumphobia, which is a fear of garlic. Or helminthophobia, which is the fear of being infested with worms.

Escalatophobia is the fear of escalators. I have it. I have it and I hate it.

All of my friends make fun of me when we go to the mall and have to use the escalator, because I will usually opt to take the stairs.

Phillips Arena is my own personal hell. They have a stairs option to get to the second level, but you HAVE to take the escalator to get to the very top. It’s awful.

Now, you’re probably wondering why escalators are terrible. They are. They will kill you.

I hate the way that escalators feel. I can feel the motors and belts moving under the cold, evil steps. I can feel the vibrations through my feet, telling me that they will stop moving at any seconds notice and suck you in and eat you.

I’m terrified that there will be 2983740239840239 people crammed on the escalator and the weight of all of the people will cause the steps to go backwards, causing the people at the very bottom to be trampled by the people at the top falling on them in a sweaty,smelly heap. No one wants to die by being crushed by a mass of 29038409234 nasty bodies.

But the most terrifying thing is the fact that I might get caught in the escalator and get sucked in. I never wear shoes with strings or flip flops if I know I will be in close contact with escalators. Even if I don’t have to get on one, the escalator will see my shoe strings and eat them. It will happen. I’m very careful to watch where I’m stepping, and I will freak out if someone is standing too close to me and might cause me to fall, which will put me on the ground, which will eat me. Because after all, the steps just look like giant undulating metal teeth in a mouth that has a taste for blondes.

Last night we went to Turner Field to see the Braves get their asses handed to them by the Phillies. Our seats were on the second tier. For anyone that’s been to Turner Field, you know that there are escalators and then there are perfectly friendly stairs about 10 feet away.

As the light from the heavens shined upon the stairs, I made my way towards them…only to be called back by my mother, who was pointing at the escalator. The filthy, vile escalator. My heart jumped to my throat, for this was no normal foe.

The escalator, which we shall name Lucifer, was terrifying. It was wide enough for a person and a midget to fit on one step, or one particularly fat person. Lucifer had a covered awning over the top to shield it’s victims from the elements, lulling them into false security before their untimely demises. And there were at least 400 people crammed onto this tiny monstrosity. I could hear the creak of the motor, calling my name.

I edged towards the stairs, hoping she would give up her quest for the escalator, but no dice. She grabbed my sleeve and pulled me on. I did a quick check on my shoes to make sure there were no loose strings. Mom was on the step in front of me, my brother beside me (for he is about the size of a midget) and my step father was behind me. At least I was surrounded by my family, which is a slightly pleasant to die. The milliseconds creeped by, and I could see the top of the escalator. Solid ground! I was so close. I reassured myself that I was going to live through this, and a sort of peace filled my mind, only to be shattered.

“OH MY GOD, I’M STUCK! SOMEONE HELP ME, MY FUCKING HOODIE IS STUCK,” my mother starts to scream.

Panic descended upon me. The only words I heard were ‘I’m stuck’ and I went into hysterics. I saw my mother, her eyes the size of plates and she was freaking out.

And I thought to myself, “I am going to die.”

Some animal survival instinct roared to life inside of me, and with a burst of self preservation I ripped the hoodie free of the hand rail.

We stepped off of the escalator, and my mother caught sight of the tears in my eyes.

“Oh, I forgot you were scared of escalators,” she says to me.

And it had never occurred to me that something could get stuck in the handrail. Especially a hood from a jacket. Something so fluffy and inoffensive could kill so many. Oh, this is terrible.

And my mother was more concerned with her stupid ripped jacket than the trauma she inflicted on her first born.

Go figure.