Around the age of
five, my Grandmother told me she became deaf after a suitcase fell onto her
head from an overhead baggage bin on an airplane. Naturally, I’ve been
terrified of suitcases falling onto my head ever since. And not because I could
go deaf. I’m already Deaf, so that’s not exactly a major concern for me. It’s
the idea of pain.
A suitcase falling onto my head—ouch! Who would wish that on
another human being? Aside from the likes of Mussolini, mind you. I truly
believe though, that the average homo sapiens would not drop a suitcase onto
someone’s unsuspecting noggin from a certain height.
At the time of this writing, yours truly is on an airplane,
and terrified for her life. Not because of the .001% or whatever chance the
plane has of suddenly combusting into a fiery burst of flames. It’s because of
damn suitcases.
The flight attendant closed all the overhead compartments,
but mine seems to still be open in the corner slightly. I swear to God, every
time I look up at it, I can see the metal handle of a suitcase. That’s how
large the slit is. I keep looking at the
gaping five-foot large crack, imagining all the disastrous possibilities, with
the numerous purses with the normal five-pound weights casually slipped into them,
sliding around haphazardly along-side overstuffed suitcases that didn’t quite
meet the size limit, but were pushed into the compartment by 300 pound men, red
in the face, straining to make them fit.
The flight attendant even did the safety demonstration and
DOUBLE-CHECKED all the compartments while wearing the neon-yellow inflatable
thingamagig (clearly I can’t hear these things, nor do I bother to read the
typed out instructions), and I’m still concerned. I wonder: Maybe she didn’t
close it QUITE tightly enough. Maybe she’s currently on medication that makes
her feel constantly slightly weak and faint, and she doesn’t have all her upper
arm strength at the moment. Maybe the compartment door is slightly broken, and
I’m the only one who notices this GLARING problem. Gawd, hearing people are so
blind to these things. They’re distracted by the blaring of their pop music
plugged into their earholes. Of course they don’t notice these grave tactical
errors. God, I should have just sat next to the window. Screw the convenience
of an aisle seat, and easy bathroom access. Did I pre-board only to get myself
into a terrible misfortune? How tragic. And ironic. Maybe the next time I fly,
I will not be pre-boarding due to playing the Deaf Card. Maybe I’ll be a
drooling, blathering vegetable who needs to be spoon-fed applesauce.
What if the suitcase falls on me as we take off? Will they
be able to pull of an emergency landing in the same airspace we just left? Or
will it fall on me somewhere in the middle of the flight as we travel over some
godforsaken state, like West Virginia? I am screwed. So screwed.
I am having what I call a “Woody Allen moment.” Woody Allen
and I are very much alike. I think we’d scare the pants off of each other if we
were to meet, each of us mortified at the moment of imagined pain or dangerous
life possibilities, and terrifying each other more and more, as each of us
envisions scenarios, all of them ending in death and/or comas, of course. The universe needs to be sure our paths never
do collide. (Though, if I did meet him, I wouldn’t hesitate to get an autograph
at the very least.)
Now, I am not a user of Twitter, nor do I really understand
it. Some sort of gimmick to tell everyone everything they don’t need to know.
That’s my overall impression. Or maybe it’s some sort of website where you can
listen to bird calls? Hearing people are SO weird. Again though, I am not
entirely certain.
Anyhoo, I have many moments in my life just like the
aforementioned one. If I had to twitterspeak everything in real life, you can bet
your bottom dollar I’d say hashtag Woody Allen after everything. Or is that
Woody Allen hashtag? Again I am not certain.
So, airline suitcases, hashtag Woody Allen/hashtag.
I had another Woody Allen moment the other day. I glanced at
my right foot, and noticed an erroneous, huge blister peering up at me from the
base of my large toe. On the TOP of my foot. “What an unusual spot!” was my
initial reaction. Then I suddenly remembered the terrible chafing shoes I had
worn to work everyday for the past week. I relaxed instantly and turned to my
friend, jokingly pointing at my foot, “Hey! Look at this humungous bump! I
probably have cancer! Let’s go to the emergency room.”
Side note: Said friend knows about my ability to channel
Woody Allen. And he and I have similar psychotic issues with random doctor
visits from cold sweaty dread that we have something, and the visits usually
end with the doctors telling us we are healthy as horses and in our prime. (We
should probably get jockeys and compete at the local racetrack.)
So, I thought my friend was in on the joke. I didn’t have a
serious expression on my face. At least, I don’t think I did. A look of concern
passed over his face like a darkening storm cloud. He gingerly picked up my
foot and stared at the blister beast. He held my foot for a good minute. I
started getting concerned. “What is it? It’s just a blister, Jon! Geez.”
“No, wait, let me see,” he mumbled, adjusting his glasses
and peering even closer. Now I was beginning to get alarmed. For real. My heart
leapt to my throat. “Yeah, no. Cancer is usually bigger than that,” he said,
dropping my foot.
I smacked him. “What was that for?” he cried out.
“You KNOW I was just kidding!” I said.
“Actually, no. I didn’t know that.”
Looks like we BOTH channel Woody Allen way too often.
Again though, I’m still scared of this particular suitcase
falling on me. We’re now getting closer to landing. I really hope we’re already
over West Virginia, at the very least. (No offense, West Virginians, but let’s be
honest. You’re not exactly the happiest state: http://www.nbcnews.com/business/americas-happiest-most-miserable-states-1C8627202)
Oh, and by the way my mother tells me that my Grandma
actually became deaf from old age, but just doesn’t want to admit it. The woman
is almost 89 years old. She is one of the smartest people I know, and is still
able to hold her own in political debates and book discussions. AND she has
dementia. But I keep getting fooled.
So, let’s hope genes are on my side. And that suitcases
don’t fall on my head, pretty please? Hashtag Woody Allen/Hashtag.
