The most terrifying 9 seconds of my life happen immediately
after flushing an airplane toilet.
There are 5 seconds of ominous mechanical
silence and inactivity, just long enough to make me wonder “did I push the
button hard enough?” This is followed by 4 seconds of sudden deafening noise
and suction, the kind which leaves me convinced every single time that I have
obviously opened a hole in the plane, and every passenger regardless of
seat assignment will be exhaled violently from the aircraft, through the
gateway of the toilet seat, starting with me.
The second most
terrifying 9 seconds of my life are kicked off when a well-intentioned soul
asks me (and it’s not often) “hey, you wanna come over and watch the game?”
And I am sucked through the toilet seat of life, spit out at
10,000 feet. What should I say? What
game? NO. This is seen as a declaration of war to those who would not miss
“the game,” who have been waiting patiently for “the game” all week, and who
have a clear allegiance to one side/team/city in this “game.” It is an
allegiance polished lovingly over the course of years, studded with live
viewings of this team in action, and upheld even in the bad years, the low
years, the losing years.
I simply cannot what
game? this noble jerseyed person I see before me.
BUT over the years I have come to find out that there is
secondary purpose to these functions and gatherings and viewings. A hidden
valley if you will, of opportunity. Because running coolly just below these
jovial hangings-out is an undercurrent, a salted, crunchy, messy, long-cooked,
crock-potted, and many-coursed riptide of food.
Eventually I got wise to the idea that I could attend a
function such as this and spend the entire duration in the kitchen, where I
have found many other amigos willing to spend an 75 minutes with me co-chairing
The Committee To Open This Bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, or serving dutifully on
the chili advisory board.
