Going Down

"Listen, not a year goes by, not a year, that I don't hear about some escalator accident involving some bastard kid which could have easily been avoided had some parent -- I don't care which one -- but some parent conditioned him to fear and respect that escalator." -- Brodie, Mallrats

I have a fear of escalators.

Not like, to the point where I won’t take them. I may have a phobia, but it’s not so strong as to overcome my extreme laziness. Once I’m on an escalator, I’m generally fine, but I have a bit of anxiety when it comes to the take off and landing. I could step between two steps and plunge to my death, or come to a thudding halt at the bottom, pitching forward and breaking my nose when I faceplant into the hard floor. I like being alive, you see, and I have a cute nose.

Last night, I was faced with a severe escalator dilemma. After purchasing two cucumbers that just screamed, “Pickle me!” I’ve become obsessed with pickling. If you live somewhere that isn’t New York City, chances are, you have a pickling section in your supermarket, where you can purchase supplies for this endeavor. Here, not so much. I figured I could start by buying a few mason jars and a funnel, and go in for the whole shebang if I didn’t lose interest as quickly as I usually lose interest in things; including but not limited to soap making, embroidery and savory muffins.

So there I was, telling Sean about my potential pickling passion, when he informed me that he’d dabbled in canning briefly, and had a whole kit that I was welcome to have if I wanted to come pick it up. (Side note: Having friends who share your enthusiasm for new things and lack of follow-through is awesome when it comes to things like this) I stopped by his place after work and was soon on my way, with a monstrous stockpot, seven mason jars, 12 lids, a funnel, a wire rack and a baffling long plastic thingy.

I made my way to the subway, arms circled around the pot, with the rest of the items inside it. Then I got to the subway and was confronted with my dilemma -- three flights of steep stairs, or one steep escalator? Of course I decided on the escalator. When I looked down from the top, though, I started to get dizzy, and imagined myself plunging to my aforementioned death. I started to sweat. It would have to be the stairs, then.

I hoisted my bounty into the crook of my left arm, grabbed the railing, and started down. My fear of heights kicked in, then, and my hand and arm began sweating profusely, making it difficult to hold the pot on one side. No way was I letting go of the railing, though. Having flashbacks to cautiously and tearfully making my way down the rickety wooden stairs of one of the Mayan ruins in Tikal, I made my way down one step at a time. The first flight was the hardest -- I started shaking and had to stop at one point to take some deep breaths. The second flight was easier and the third, a breeze. Moments later, I finally sank into a seat on the A train, and felt my entire body relax.

In hindsight, the escalator was probably the better option. But on a brighter note, who wants some pickles?