Enclosed Encounters (Notes from a Claustrophobe)

I was eight years old when I had my first claustrophobic experience. It happened the day I ducked into Grandma’s closet for a look at my new glow-in-the-dark ring. This particular Granny-closet was built long before room-sized walk-ins and before closet lights.

I remember closing the door and sliding between the sleeves and pant legs to admire my ring’s green glow. Because I had the attention span of a gnat, it didn’t take long before I’d had my fill of glowing rings and was ready to move on to other activities.

In case you wondered, using a glow-in-the dark ring to locate an exit is a lot like trying to find your way out of a coal mine with a lightning bug. When I finally found the door, it wouldn’t open. Nooo! I was trapped inside a cloth-infested cave that smelled like mothballs and talcum powder! My animal instincts kicked in. I screamed and hurled myself at the door until it popped open.

As I grew older, I feared tiny lavatories. That’s because I possessed the uncanny ability to lock myself in and not be able to get back out. Past experience taught me to carefully examine all locking mechanisms before entering a tiny lavatory.

During a nonstop flight from Philadelphia to Orlando, I needed to make use of the tiny restroom. I followed my advice and examined the restroom lock. It appeared to have a simple sliding latch. By the time I was ready to come back out, though, I discovered two things.

Number one: There was an extra step to the door opening process that I’d missed.

Number two: the lights were connected to the latch. When I slid the latch, the place went completely black!

Anyone outside that bathroom door must’ve thought I was in there ballroom dancing with a rhino. I stopped thumping long enough to relock the door and bring up the lights. That’s when I saw the doorknob in the middle of the door. You were supposed to turn the knob and then slide the latch. Once I figured that out, I shot from that lavatory faster than the Cannonball Lady at the county fair.

There comes a time, though, when you have to face your fears. So when I had an opportunity to ride in a roller coaster simulator with my older sister, I took it. If you’ve never seen a roller coaster simulator, it looks a lot like the inside of a cement mixer. Built for two.

To create our ride, we stood in front of a computer, in a wide-open space, and gleefully entered our tracks, adding loops and corkscrews and other roller coaster features. We ran out of track before we completed our ride, but we didn’t care. It was a simulation. We just laughed a pressed, “enter,” which caused a small card to spit out of a slot.

After a brief wait in line, we gave our simulation card to the attendant. He lifted the cement mixer lid. I bravely climbed inside with my sister. The guy closed it, trapping us inside. I pretended not to mind (even though I kinda did).

The lights snapped off. The screen flashed on and there they were, our opening tracks. We felt movement. The screen showed our very first corkscrew. The simulator flipped us around once. Woo-hoo! And then … the ride stopped.

The lights came back on. A note on the screen read, “Please wait for attendant.”

My sister said, “That’s not how we designed it!” Which was true. If we had, that would have been the shortest roller coaster ride in the history of the planet.

A tiny window at the top of the simulator, that I didn’t know was there, opened. From above, the attendant said, “I called maintenance. Are you guys okay?”

I wasn’t okay. This was a claustrophobe’s worst nightmare. Actually, getting buried alive is a claustrophobe’s worst nightmare. This was more like a claustrophobe’s really bad nap.

To my credit, I didn’t openly panic (that was purely internal). I didn’t want my sister to think I was a wimp. So we sat there and waited. What other choice did we have? The guy knew we were in there. It wasn’t like we got stuck in an abandoned simulator at the dump.

We pretended it was normal to get trapped inside a ride that resembled a cement mixer. We passed the time by discussing faulty elevators.

Can you name one sitcom that didn’t have an episode where somebody got stuck in an elevator? I trust elevators as much as I trust the locks on tiny lavatories. If I’m forced to use an elevator, I plan ahead. As a precautionary measure, I’ll stop at the restroom first. I’ll pack spring water and snacks. Sometimes I’ll even bring a novel for light reading just in case the elevator freezes between floors.

When people see me enter with my supplies, they ask, “Are you going camping?”

“Nope, just up to the fifth floor.”

The roller coaster simulator lid finally popped opened ten minutes later (which is a week and a half in claustrophobic time). I forced myself to climb out with dignity.

The ride attendant said, “Sorry about that. Would you like to try a different simulator?”

I wanted to say yes, just to prove I’d grown as a person in there. My non-claustrophobic sister, however, said, “Are you kidding me?” and flounced away with head held high.

What I learned from that experience was that you don’t have to be claustrophobic to pass on the opportunity to ride in a roller coaster simulator.

As for elevators; I say take the stairs. It’s good cardio.