I might never sleep again.
Because somewhere in an alternate horror universe, I know that Tiny Tim, Pennywise the clown, and Bette Davis are holding hands, singing, and dancing in a circle. You can bet those evil fuckers are laughing at my expense.
Chapter 37:
STRANGER THINGS HAVE HAPPENED
Once upon a time in a youth far, far ago, I enjoyed a reputation as a fabulous party host. In fact, much to my mother’s bewilderment, my high school senior class voted me Best Party Giver.
“I don’t get it,” she said upon reading this news in the school paper. “When did you have parties?”
I was nearly eighteen and would be starting college that fall; I figured I had little to lose by fessing up. I shrugged, allowing a little smirk. “Um, every time you and Dad weren’t home.”
Other than her raised eyebrows, my mom appeared unruffled by the news. But apparently, she tucked away this bit of knowledge and chose to get her revenge twenty-five years later by dropping this bomb on my fourteen-year-old son. Over the next four years, Son #1 used it as justification for every unsanctioned party he threw. Thanks for that, maternal traitor of mine.
Eventually though, my own party skills nose-dived. Most of the parties I held after my twenties entailed juice boxes, pin the tail on the donkey, and little boys peeing their pants while waiting in line for the piñata.
My plans to throw a terrific shindig at the age of fifty-two presented a number of new challenges—the biggest one being that this was a “Stranger Party,” and I wouldn’t know a single person.
I formed my guest list by asking several friends and coworkers to invite someone. The rules were these: We could never have met (not even online); they couldn’t know each other; and they had to attend alone, not even accompanied by the mutual friend who invited them. My own trepidation surely paled in comparison to theirs. They would need to be brave souls, indeed.
My next challenge was to plan a party while knowing virtually nothing about the guests. Unlike my high school and college years, supplying a couple bags of Doritos and asking everyone to pitch in for a keg no longer seemed a safe bet. I bought an assortment of alcoholic beverages and soft drinks, and prepared a huge feast catering to every taste and diet. After all, this was the new millennium. Someone was sure to require vegan, low-carb, or gluten-free.
My mom forgave my youthful misdeeds and helped me tackle my woeful windows and mopboards. I planned games, including the ever-popular “Two Truths and a Lie,” to break the ice and break up the inevitable long lulls in conversation.
As prepared as possible, I awaited my new stranger friends. But that night, the Hellacious Winter That Would Never End tossed another storm our way. The phone calls began pouring in as guests battled the blowing snow into the boonies of Waterville, Ohio. A few were having trouble fighting the elements, and one took a wrong turn and got lost for hours. Surely, at least a couple would conclude an uncomfortable evening with strangers at the home of a woman—who, as far as they knew, could be clinically insane—was not worth the effort.
Yet, all seven persevered. That alone proved this would be a remarkable group of women.
Yes, we were all women. Although I’d encouraged my friends and coworkers to invite men as well as women, all the takers were female.
Besides our gender, we shared few similarities. We ranged in age from twenty-two to seventy-four. Our occupations ran the gamut from teacher to realtor to church office manager. We were divorced, married, and single. One had young twins, others had grandchildren, and the youngest was a recent college graduate still living with her parents.
These details came out early, during small talk over wine, stuffed mushrooms, and smoked salmon. “Two Truths and a Lie” did indeed break the ice. (We all so wanted to believe that Susan had truly slept with Frank Sinatra.) But our small talk segued, amazingly fast, into much more.
We waded into deeper topics, including the socially taboo trifecta of social, political, and religious issues. We each shared our thoughts, with a twinge of outward unease only in the most passionate discussions, particularly about abortion and the last presidential election.
What none of us expected was that we’d so openly share our most embarrassing personal experiences, like one woman’s horrific “burning crotch” anecdote and another’s tale about the huge spit bubble she produced while engaging with a prospective date.
We roared in laughter and nodded in empathy. We begged each other for other personal confessions, and our new friends didn’t disappoint.
What was happening? I’d never been at a party like this, never met people quite like these. We conversed and grinned and hugged all evening, as if we’d been lifelong friends. We all agreed it was the most immediate and closest connection we’d ever felt with a group of new people.
Perhaps the pool of guests was already narrowed to our advantage. After all, who else but a fairly outgoing or courageous individual attends an intimate dinner party, alone, with total strangers? We discussed how the course of the evening might have changed if a man had joined our group. Did the fact that we were all women make a difference in our ability to be so open and fully engaged?
Or, did we feel we had nothing to lose by sharing so much of our private selves with people we figured we’d never see again?
We held back little, and no one seemed self-conscious or embarrassed by much. Well, no one except the hostess, who was so busy accommodating guests and drinking wine (and wine-drinking was not her forte) that she forgot to eat.
Somewhere in between asking my new friends to challenge themselves that night with their own experiences of dining in the dark and eating insects and my next plan for them to try their hand at belly dancing in my living room, the evening grew blurry. While my fortitude for new experiences had been growing in leaps and bounds, my wine tolerance remained pitiful.
The next morning, as I tried to recollect the foggy conclusion of our evening, I sent off an email to them all. I thanked them, apologized for being “over-served,” and said I hoped we still shared the love. A heartwarming thread of emails flew for days.
“I had more fun with you ‘strange’ ladies than I have had at any party I have ever attended.”
“I can honestly say I’ve not enjoyed myself like that in quite some time.”
“We did agree that ‘What happens at the Stranger Party, stays at the Stranger Party,’ right?” All of us, particularly me, breathed a sigh of relief at that.
And, finally, this email: “Each one of you is so unique and has so much to contribute to this group, which I suggest we call ‘The 52 Club,’” she wrote. She suggested this single experience was worthy of a book in itself for me to write: “Our story of eight ladies of diverse backgrounds and ages, and the developing friendships that ensued.”
Perhaps she hit upon something there, because our story didn’t end that night.
We began to meet monthly, catching up on news of each other’s jobs, families, and dating experiences. Each get-together recaptured the warmth and fellowship of that first night. Our evenings together gradually grew more sporadic, as happens with even the best of friends. One member in our group moved out of state. Two of us were diagnosed with cancer—and beat the hell out of it. And both our twenty-two-year-old friend and our rock star seventy-four-year-old friend found new romances.
Even so, as time passed and circumstances changed, we remained closely connected. I have a feeling we always will. And even if six months go by before The 52 Club gathers again, that just means we will have more to talk about.
Is it possible for a group of strangers, brought together for a single night as part of one woman’s odd personal journey, to become lifelong friends?
Stranger things have happened.
Chapter 38:
WE ALL FLOAT DOWN HERE
My last several adventures had gone swimmingly. Sure, I experienced some residual hiccups, but on a bravery scale of one to ten, I was feeling about an eight. And that sort of
cockiness, as anyone knows, is precisely when the Gods of Fear and Humility show up to knock you on your ass.
As I faced my newest exploit, I felt only a tad uneasy about testing the waters: even though that water would be pooled below me, in a dark and soundproof tank.
I was uncertain how I’d react to spending an hour inside a flotation tank—commonly known as an isolation tank or a sensory deprivation tank. I’d been under more stress than usual, so I hoped the session would live up to its purported mission of inducing relaxation, meditation, and increased creativity.
Even so, the devil on my shoulder whispered that floating in a tiny, closed chest of salt water—while virtually blind and deaf—might feel akin to being buried alive. At the bottom of the ocean.
This experience would either relax me into a nearly comatose state, or it would put me over the edge entirely. I chose to bet on the optimistic slant, partly because I’d never been claustrophobic and also because I was reality-challenged.
I found the nearest tank at a progressive health center a half hour away. Calling to make an appointment, I was told the schedule was wide open all week. That should have served as a bright red flag. I may not have been claustrophobic, but perhaps I was color blind.
The receptionist suggested I bring soap and shampoo, since I’d be required to shower both before and after my session. In addition, she said the eight hundred pounds of salt in the water, which provided the buoyancy to allow a person to float, could irritate the skin. She advised me not to shave my legs for a couple days before my appointment.
Shave my legs? I snorted. Apparently, she’d forgotten this was February. In northwest Ohio.
The isolation tank, appropriately, was situated in a locked room in a remote area in the back of the building. The assistant showed me how to set the timer before I entered the tank. She assured me that even while lying inside a soundproof vat and wearing wax earplugs to keep out the salt water, I’d hear the alarm signaling when my time was up.
If I wanted to quit sooner for any reason, she said I could simply open the lid and call it a day. I shrugged. Good information to know, but I was a gamer. I told myself I’d stay the full hour in order to get the maximum experience.
After showering, I set the timer, climbed in, and shut the hatch.
Floating in the silent darkness of the small tank, I attempted to close out the world while opening my mind. A few things became immediately clear.
LESSON #1: Time passes slowwwwly when you’re lying in a sightless and soundless tank of water.
LESSON #2: If you’ve been experiencing sinus or upper respiratory issues, the humidity inside a closed tank of warm water will rise enough to induce an acute asthma attack.
LESSON #3: Time stands still entirely when you cannot breathe.
Roughly ten minutes had passed when my lungs began to give in to defeat. I reasoned only a few moments remained before certain asphyxiation.
I blinked my eyes open and twisted my head to look around, as if this could help in the pitch black. I began splashing and crawling my way to the opposite end of the tank. It suddenly seemed way bigger than it looked from the outside. I groped around for the exit hatch, seemed to locate it, and pushed.
The lid didn’t budge. I pushed again. And again. Nothing.
And then, my asthma morphed into a full-blown panic attack. Or at least what I imagined a panic attack to feel like, since I had never experienced one. Manic heart rate? Check. Inability to breathe? Check. Inability to find a way out of a life-threatening situation? Check.
I thrashed around the dark vat of water. Even within this small space, I became increasingly disoriented. I contemplated screaming, but I knew no one in the front office would hear me from inside a soundproof box in a locked, remote room out back. I had the last scheduled appointment in the tank that day. How much time would pass after the evening’s last massage or yoga session before someone might casually ask a coworker, “Hey, whatever happened to that weird lady in the flotation tank? Did you see her leave?”
Worse yet, I suddenly envisioned Pennywise the clown, from Stephen King’s It, grinning at me with a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth and growling, “We all float down here!”
I was pretty certain no one would find my mangled, salt-encrusted body until the next morning, after it had mysteriously drifted from the shallow waters of the tank to land, floating inside a street sewer.
Just as I began to give in to the futility of my fate, my hands clawed one last time at the walls of the tank. And then, I finally found the hatch—the actual escape hatch! I pushed it open.
Bright light and a rush of fresh air greeted me. I jumped out, dripping and hyperventilating.
Once I was able to breathe again, I calmed and recollected myself. I had escaped. I was breathing. And, Pennywise was nowhere in sight.
I glanced at the timer. I still had about forty-five minutes left in my session. I couldn’t quit now, especially since I knew what to expect and I had discovered the real way out. I sucked in a few more deep breaths and then sucked up my courage, too. I closed the lid again, this time committing its location to memory.
Five minutes later, I found myself scrambling once again for air. Holy hell! There was no chance of a successful end to this experience if I suffocated partway through it.
I cracked the hatch and gulped in fresh air. I lay inside the partially opened vat as I contemplated my next move. With my earplugs and closed eyes, the room remained dark and quiet. Was that sufficient to count toward completing the challenge? Or was it cheating? Surely this modified experience, along with the time I already spent inside the fully closed tank, still counted. And, now that I could breathe, I might finally achieve that carefree meditative state.
I tried to leave my mind blank. I sang soothing songs in my head. I tried to find my “happy place.” While I attempted to relax, I instead found myself pondering everything on my extensive to-do list. I contemplated all the work, writing, and personal tasks that had plagued me into a state of stress for the past couple of weeks. With so much on my agenda, what the hell was I doing, wasting my afternoon lying inside a vat of warm salt water?
Whether I was just too tightly wound that day or whether my asthma attack had thwarted my ability to relax, I finally allowed myself to climb out, halfway through my allotted time.
I was forced to admit that floating in a tank simply didn’t float my boat.
Apparently, I wasn’t alone in my disenchantment. As I left the center, I noticed a sign posted on the front desk: “Flotation Tank for Sale: $8,000. Comes with all equipment and 100 pounds of salt.” I’d save my money for a Jacuzzi.
A year later, with this experience long behind me and nearly forgotten, I found myself scheduled for an MRI. When I checked in, the hospital desk clerk asked if I was claustrophobic.
“Not at all,” I reassured her. “I had an MRI a few years ago and had no problem.”
I closed my eyes, in relaxation mode, as my body glided into the device.
“Just keep in mind that it’s a little tight in there,” the technician said.
I felt my arms squeezed between my torso and the inside of the machine. I was unable to move my body even an inch on either side. Either I was bigger than I’d been during my first MRI, or this machine was smaller, or something else was different. I opened my eyes but could glimpse nothing except the top of the tunnel enclosing me, inches from my face.
No high humidity or asthma attack could be blamed for what followed.
“Stop!” I shouted. “I can’t do this. You need to get me out of here.”
The stretcher exited the machine. I sat up and blinked twice.
“I don’t understand,” I told the technician. “I had one of these before and didn’t feel claustrophobic at all. But I totally panicked in there just now. I can’t go through with this.”
The annoyed tech crossed her arms and suggested I either reschedule for an “open” MRI machine or take a Valium next time. Both might help. Or maybe n
either.
It wasn’t until I was in the car, halfway home, that I recalled my isolation tank experience. I managed to connect the not-so-distant dots.
A few of our fears are instinctive. Others are clearly acquired.
Some are just too close for comfort.
Chapter 39:
PAJAMA PARTY OF ONE
The bookstore clerk eyed me suspiciously. He trailed a few yards behind me, his head popping around the corner each time I turned down another aisle.
Maybe it was my oversized purse, which potentially could be stuffed with five-finger-discounted books. Perhaps I was just paranoid. Or, maybe it was my outfit: pink pajamas, slippers, and a headful of curlers.
As crazy as I felt, it was probably only half as crazy as I looked. But “crazy” had become a relative term—a concept to which I was becoming more immune.
When I first conceived this very public experience, I imagined climbing out of bed that Sunday morning, brushing my teeth (murder by halitosis wasn’t among my goals), and then simply heading out for the day in my pajamas. However, I hadn’t given this enough consideration the night before. I’d slept in a pair of plaid flannel pants and a T-shirt. It was sleep garb that loads of people now managed to pass off as public attire.
I perused my dresser drawer until I found a pink, lace-trimmed pajama set that would be undeniably recognized as the nightwear it was. I peered in the mirror. Perfect. Except for the minor detail that the sheer fabric clearly displayed my boobage. That particular ship had already sailed during my exhibitionist experience at the nude beach. I didn’t care to repeat it in any way. I strapped on a bra beneath my pajama top.
Next, I slipped into a pair of fluffy pink slippers. If I must look ridiculous in public, I would at least come off as fashionably color-coordinated.
Finding My Badass Self Page 17
