Going to the Fair

I had a knack for screaming when I was younger. Blood curdling screams that came from deep within my being. Sometimes, much to my father's dismay, I would let out one of the signature screams while on one of our long drives through upstate New York's countryside to break the monotony. No matter, he got me back a time or two. It became a game we would play with each other, but not with mom in the car. No, that wouldn't do.

I loved amusement parks when I was younger too. The speed and height of the roller coasters was a thrill. The taller, faster and more loops they had, the better. But screaming was allowed. Once, at a small country fair in South Carolina, my screaming gained the attention of others a drew a large crowd. The ride operators recognized my great talent ( I really could have done voice overs for horror movies), and started letting me ride for free-provided I kept screaming.

The operator on the twister was a different animal altogether. You remember that ride. You're in a cup that turns around that's on a base that also turns around. He told me I could ride and if I didn't scream, I'd have to pay. Well, did you know that they can control how fast those rides go? I'm talking 5 Gs, like rocket to the moon force. Once that ride was in full swing, I was plastered there in my seat, the right side of my face morphed into the head rest, drool running across the left hand side of my face. Forget screaming. I couldn't breathe. And when it stopped, I was green. Wicked Witch of the West green, minus the wart on my nose. We paid, and I stayed in bed for two days with an upset stomach.

To this DAY, I cannot ride even a merry-go-round without feeling sick to my stomach. Swings and slides are also out, for the most part. I'll still ride  roller coasters on rare occasions, but those are few and far between. I will cry, then laugh, then cry again. It's more a feeling of hysteria than fun.

How to Ride A Horse

     I've seen John Wayne do it on TV; mount a horse with little effort. Left foot on the stirrup, left hand on the saddle horn, one leg thrown over the horse's massive back in one swift movement. Just like that, the horse and he are one. Sometimes while riding, he would deftly bend down and whip his arm around the slender waist of the damsel in distress, whisking her up in his lap and riding into the sunset.
     Bonanza, remember that show? Everyone knew how to ride a horse, especially Little Joe. Oh, how I loved little Joe, but that's a story for another time.
     My experience riding on a horse? Not so spectacular. It was in the rolling hills of Bowling Green, Kentucky during a summer trail ride. I'd trail ridden several times before, but was not prepared for that day. I knew something was wrong about one quarter of the way through, riding this tall mass of muscle, sweat and hair. Boy, was he tall. He kept turning his head and biting at my shoe. Then he would buck his back legs up in the air in an effort to throw this 14 year old load off his back. The advice fellow riders gave was great, it just didn't work. Slack off on the reigns. Sit straighter. Don't squeeze so tight with your knees. Then the rider in front of me broke into a run and my horse followed.
     How to ride a horse? Let go of the reigns, lay down on his neck, grab on for dear life and scream like a nine year old girl in a room full of spiders. You would think this was bad enough, but wait, there's more. He saw the barn and broke into a full run. I have no idea how I stayed on, but away we both went until we reached the bottom of the hill and into the barn. Once there he started banging against the walls until I grabbed onto a stall door and jumped off. To this day I don't know how I got away without any bruises or being trampled.
     Once I was on the ground, he stopped and looked at me as if to say, "Hey, do you come here often?" No. And I never went back. Turns out the groomer didn't spray the poor thing down and there was a pebble under his blanket.
   

Too Many Ways to Die

I recently was admitted to the hospital after antibiotics failed to cure an infection I had. I then came down with a virus and on top of that had contracted some sort of weird inflammatory disorder. Oh, and my plumbing started giving me some problems. Needless to say I felt pretty bad, but that didn't stop my imagination from working over time. After one and a half hours, an IV was started and blood was drawn, this because of the high fever and the extent of my dehydration. Doctors promptly sent me for a cat scan and while I was entering the machine, countless scenes from the Final Destination movies played through my head. I was no longer worried about my various physical ailments, but of lasers burning out my eyes, or the machine imploding on me, or catching fire and being trapped in the room alone and burning alive. What a tiresome event.

Once I survived that, I thought I was out of the woods, but no. While I was being wheeled to my room, I asked how many patients were on the floor and was told that I was patient number six. Given, this isn't a big hospital, but now I had to worry about sociopaths who might kill nurses and doctors and creep to my room to put me out of my misery in a variety of violent ways. I imagined how I would hide, given that I was connected to bags of antibiotics and fluids and could barely stand on my own. I asked for sleeping pills two nights in a row because I had trouble sleeping. Is it any wonder? I kept the channels on hallmark movies in there. No more scary movies for me.

Well...until this weekend when I saw The Woman in Black. Slept with the light on again. Some lessons are never learned!