voice reassuringly close to my ear. He reaches for my hand and squeezes it.
I take a deep breath of disgusting B.O. air. “Uh-huh.”
If this were two years ago, when I was in the midst of my panic attacks after Will left, I would be about to throw up or pass out or both.
But the panic attacks subsided somewhere around the time Jack came along, with the help of some little pink pills that were prescribed for me by Dr. Trixie Schwartzenbaum. As a delightful pharmaceutical side effect, I lost my appetite and the remainder of the forty pounds I needed to take off.
I eventually tapered off the pills last winter with nary a panic attack nor added pounds, but Dr. Schwartzenbaum warned me that they could be triggered again.
The panic attacks.
The appetite too, I guess. But at least I can combat that with my old standby weapons: cabbage soup, baby carrots and brisk lunch-hour walks to Tribeca and back.
Fighting the panic attacks is a little more complicated. Sometimes I wonder what might set them off again.
Being trapped underground in a packed subway car in a dark tunnel could very well do it.
I try not to remember the old movie I once saw with my grandfather about a subway hijacking. The Taking of Pelham 123.
I squeeze Jack’s hand, hard. He squeezes back.
See, that’s the thing. I always know that he loves me, to the point where his mere presence is reassuring. Not just in this subway crisis (I know, but to me it’s a crisis)—but in my life. That’s why I want to know— need to know—that we’ll be together forever.
Because I can’t imagine my life ever feeling normal again without him.
Surely he feels the same way.
Surely he’s ready to make that final commitment, wouldn’t ya think?
The intercom interrupts my speculation, crackling loudly with a seemingly urgent announcement.
The only words I think I can make out clearly are “grapefruit,” “Ricky Schroeder” and “explosive.”
Or maybe I’m hearing them wrong.
“What did they say?” I ask Jack.
“Who knows?” he replies amid the disgruntled grumbling from similarly stumped commuters.
Okay, I might not have heard grapefruit or Ricky Schroeder, but I’m pretty sure I heard the word explosive.
I try not to think about terrorist attacks and suicide bombers.
Yeah, you know how that goes. Terrorist attacks and suicide bombers are now all I can think about.
In a matter of moments, I am convinced that this is no ordinary malfunction, but an Al Qaeda plot.
We’re all going to die, right here, right now. And when we do, we won’t even be able to slump to the ground because we’re wedged against each other like hundreds of cocktail toothpicks in a full plastic container.
I try to shift my weight, but succeed only slightly.
Great. Now I’m going to die standing up with what I hope is somebody’s umbrella poking into my leg. As opposed to a penis or a gun.
I try to shift my weight back in the opposite direction but that space has been filled. I can’t move.
To add to the drama, from this spot, even in this dim light, I have a clear view of yet another Married People Live Longer ad.
Dammit!
I know it’s not as if all the married people on board the train will be sheltered from harm in a golden beam from heaven while the rest of us losers die a terrible death, but…
Well, that stupid tag line isn’t helping matters. Not at all.
Married People Live Longer.
It might as well have said: Single People Die Young.
My chest is getting tight and my forehead is breaking out into a cold sweat. This definitely feels like a panic attack.
Mental note: place emergency call to Dr. Trixie Schwartzenbaum ASAP.
I’m trapped. Oh, God, I can’t even breathe. There’s no air in here.
Yes there is. Stop that. There’s plenty of air.
I inhale.
Exhale.
See? Plenty of stale, stinky air to go around.
“Come on!” shouts an angry voice in the dark.
“This is bullshit!” somebody else announces.
Another passenger throws in a colorful
I take a deep breath of disgusting B.O. air. “Uh-huh.”
If this were two years ago, when I was in the midst of my panic attacks after Will left, I would be about to throw up or pass out or both.
But the panic attacks subsided somewhere around the time Jack came along, with the help of some little pink pills that were prescribed for me by Dr. Trixie Schwartzenbaum. As a delightful pharmaceutical side effect, I lost my appetite and the remainder of the forty pounds I needed to take off.
I eventually tapered off the pills last winter with nary a panic attack nor added pounds, but Dr. Schwartzenbaum warned me that they could be triggered again.
The panic attacks.
The appetite too, I guess. But at least I can combat that with my old standby weapons: cabbage soup, baby carrots and brisk lunch-hour walks to Tribeca and back.
Fighting the panic attacks is a little more complicated. Sometimes I wonder what might set them off again.
Being trapped underground in a packed subway car in a dark tunnel could very well do it.
I try not to remember the old movie I once saw with my grandfather about a subway hijacking. The Taking of Pelham 123.
I squeeze Jack’s hand, hard. He squeezes back.
See, that’s the thing. I always know that he loves me, to the point where his mere presence is reassuring. Not just in this subway crisis (I know, but to me it’s a crisis)—but in my life. That’s why I want to know— need to know—that we’ll be together forever.
Because I can’t imagine my life ever feeling normal again without him.
Surely he feels the same way.
Surely he’s ready to make that final commitment, wouldn’t ya think?
The intercom interrupts my speculation, crackling loudly with a seemingly urgent announcement.
The only words I think I can make out clearly are “grapefruit,” “Ricky Schroeder” and “explosive.”
Or maybe I’m hearing them wrong.
“What did they say?” I ask Jack.
“Who knows?” he replies amid the disgruntled grumbling from similarly stumped commuters.
Okay, I might not have heard grapefruit or Ricky Schroeder, but I’m pretty sure I heard the word explosive.
I try not to think about terrorist attacks and suicide bombers.
Yeah, you know how that goes. Terrorist attacks and suicide bombers are now all I can think about.
In a matter of moments, I am convinced that this is no ordinary malfunction, but an Al Qaeda plot.
We’re all going to die, right here, right now. And when we do, we won’t even be able to slump to the ground because we’re wedged against each other like hundreds of cocktail toothpicks in a full plastic container.
I try to shift my weight, but succeed only slightly.
Great. Now I’m going to die standing up with what I hope is somebody’s umbrella poking into my leg. As opposed to a penis or a gun.
I try to shift my weight back in the opposite direction but that space has been filled. I can’t move.
To add to the drama, from this spot, even in this dim light, I have a clear view of yet another Married People Live Longer ad.
Dammit!
I know it’s not as if all the married people on board the train will be sheltered from harm in a golden beam from heaven while the rest of us losers die a terrible death, but…
Well, that stupid tag line isn’t helping matters. Not at all.
Married People Live Longer.
It might as well have said: Single People Die Young.
My chest is getting tight and my forehead is breaking out into a cold sweat. This definitely feels like a panic attack.
Mental note: place emergency call to Dr. Trixie Schwartzenbaum ASAP.
I’m trapped. Oh, God, I can’t even breathe. There’s no air in here.
Yes there is. Stop that. There’s plenty of air.
I inhale.
Exhale.
See? Plenty of stale, stinky air to go around.
“Come on!” shouts an angry voice in the dark.
“This is bullshit!” somebody else announces.
Another passenger throws in a colorful
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