Day 91: Balloonaphobia

Have you ever thought about what your ultimate "Fear Factor" challenge would be? I waffle between lying down in a vat of snakes (actually, having just one eensie weensie, non-venomous snake in the same haystack as me would pretty much do the trick) and being trapped in a submerged car. My friend MB gave me a Life Hammer -- a tool that breaks glass and cuts jammed seat belts -- and I've stowed it right next to the driver's seat just in case. There's even a fluorescent patch on the mount so that you can see it in dark or murky water. How convenient! All this is dependent, of course, upon me keeping my wits about me as that cold, murky water rushes into the car. I might as well just hit myself over the head with the Life Hammer and get it over with...

MB, by the way, is a germaphobe. She's the one who taught me that the first stall in a public bathroom is the cleanest because it's used the least. Not for long.

My friend K's son sent me instructions for escaping from a car in water. I thought that was very kind until I noticed that he'd decorated the envelope with a drawing of a little red car (suspiciously like mine) screaming through the air, nose ready to plunge into the icy blue water below. I wish I could remember what his fear factor is so that I could torture him.

And that brings me to the heart of the matter. All joking aside, what if I lose my memories? I love to tell stories; I enjoy sifting through my brain; I adore those "AHA!" moments when a glimmer of recollection starts to push through that foggy swamp. Maybe it's a smell, maybe it's one of those "Do You Remember" e-mails (as in the recent one from my brother D about metal ice cube trays and green stamps), maybe it's a snippet of conversation, whatever it is awakens a long dormant image that I grasp at greedily and exclaim, "I remember!" followed by something stupid like, "I thought I'd forgotten that forever!" I've been thrown a Life Hammer.

Memories are like helium balloons constantly bucking and straining to break away: if you're quick enough, you can catch hold of the strings and reel them back in. Age and illness are powerful magnets, however, and oftentimes the balloons soar away, gone forever.

I know I'm only going to be 50 and that age is relative -- I'm growing more comfortable with that concept every day. I don't really mind getting older. I just don't want to do it untethered from my memories. I don't want to get stuck in that sinking car.