TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 69

[Tobie Shapiro]

November 24, 200000000000006


Dear stuffed birds,

	In the middle of the evening, sitting 
over our soiled plates, and half filled wine 
glasses, I realized I didn't feel good.  I went 
upstairs and took my temperature, the same way 
you take the turkey's temperature, by sticking a 
thermometer in it, and I registered a fever.  I 
spent the rest of the evening in bed, staying 
away from anyone to whom I might give my foul 
disease, and resting my exhausted limbs.  I 
worked hard yesterday.  And the result was stacks 
and stacks of dirty dishes, glasses, goblets, 
silverware, pots and pans, serving utensils.  Oh 
what a pretty mess!  I came downstairs this 
morning to set out Meyshe's medications and a 
bowl of cereal for him, and saw the counter 
splattered with undone dishes, roasting pans, 
serving bowls, cups, saucers.  I brainlessly 
stood at the sink and did most of the dishes.  I 
worked until the drain board was filled and there 
was no where else to put the cleaned dishes. 
Then I got Meyshe's stuff ready, and trudged 
upstairs to the computer.  I briefly thought, 
"Should I have contaminated those dishes with my 
sick hands?"  But my sick hands were immersed in 
soapy water, and I doubt that I'd poisoned 
anyone.  They'll be glad I did them.  Now, 
sitting at the computer, I can't believe I had 
the energy to scrub those pots and baking bowls. 
But I did, and now I can't believe I have the 
energy to type out another life story.  But it's 
my daily ritual now.  Can't stop it or the sky 
will fall.  A trace of OCD.  The house is quiet 
except for my hammering on the keys.  Bang bang 
bang.  I hope you all had a shining Thanksgiving, 
a time of glistening gratitude for all those 
things that bless your life.  I hope your 
relatives and friends were on their best 
behaviour, and no hostilities broke out between 
warring factions.  Now it's time to clean up and 
look forward to the rest of the holidays.  Since 
I don't work outside the home, I've not been 
invited to an office party, thank God.  And I'll 
be feeling better by the end of the day.  I'm 
sure of it.  This is a 24 hour illness.  I'm 
counting the hours.


                            ¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼


Ticklish

	I used to be very ticklish.  I was one of 
those kids who would laugh uncontrollably if you 
wiggled your fingers at her from across the room. 
Why does that work?  Is it purely Pavlovian?  For 
this reason, tickling fights were not fair with 
me.  I was the loser before the battle began.  I 
couldn't even get close to anyone else before I 
broke down laughing and squirming.  My sister 
loved to tickle me.  She'd pick my most 
vulnerable spot  --  right at the side of the 
waist, above the hips and below the ribs  -- 
that fleshy part was my utter downfall. 
Sometimes she would wiggle her fingers at me, and 
I'd tell her to stop, but she wouldn't.  And what 
grounds did I have to complain?  She hadn't even 
touched me.  She'd barely moved.  But, oh, what 
glee she got out of making me helpless.  This was 
when we were little, in Silver Spring, Maryland. 
Because I was so susceptible, I never tickled 
anyone else.  It seemed kind of stupid.

	But, you know how kids are.  We are 
always trying out new phenomena with our bodies: 
curling our tongues, crossing and rolling our 
eyes, pressing our arms against a door post, 
counting to thirty and then stepping out, 
watching in amazement while our arms lift up in 
the air of their own accord.  We knot our fingers 
up, then twist our arms and elbows around so that 
we're good and disoriented.  Then we have someone 
else point at a finger and we try to move that 
one.  You can get good at it if you rehearse it, 
but it's not easy.  (The idea is to stop and 
think before wiggling a finger).  We put our hand 
up against someone else's and then take our thumb 
and forefinger and rub up and down on either side 
of the joined fingers for that dead hand, live 
hand sensation.  We try standing on one foot with 
our eyes closed.  We put the tips of our index 
fingers together in front of our faces and look 
past it to see that double tipped sausage finger 
suspended in midair between our hands.  We 
experiment with these vessels we've been given, 
in general making ourselves dizzy so we can fall 
on the ground, lie there, woozy, then get our 
bearings again until we can get  up and confuse 
our bodies some more.

	It must have been educational for her the 
first few times my she tickled me to death, but 
after that, it was pretty much pure sadism.  I'd 
beg her not to, and run away, and she'd chase 
after me, calling out, "Tickle, tickle, tickle!"

	"Stop! Stop it!  MooooooOOOOooom!  Dana's 
tickling me!  Tell her to stop!"  And I'd be 
rescued if my mother was anywhere around.  If she 
weren't, I would have to outrun my older sister 
until I got into a room I could lock myself in; 
the bathroom was best.

	One afternoon, we were horsing around in 
the basement.  My father was in the shop, in the 
next room, helping Joel Lubar, our twisted baby 
sitter, make a telescope for his high school 
science class.  Dana and I were playing some 
games, and unfortunately, I won, because she had 
to get even, and threatened to tickle me.  She 
had me cornered and backed up against the wall, 
protecting my sides.  I was wearing a little 
white blouse with elastic puffy sleeves cut at 
the shoulder, and peddle pushers, with a tiny 
floral print on them, a periwinkle blue with 
yellow and pink flowers, a little greenery.  Then 
I had on my socks and sneakers tied in two double 
knotted bows.  I remember how excruciating was 
the wait, not knowing for a while what she'd do 
to me.  I knew she was considering it.  Then, she 
moved forward, stretched out her arms and waved 
her ten fingers at me.  "Tickle, tickle," she 
said in a sing song.  "Tickle.  Tickle.  I'm 
tickling you."  I started to laugh, and I thought 
of closing my eyes so I wouldn't see her hands, 
but then she'd just move in on me while I was 
blind and defenseless.  So I stood there, pressed 
up against the wall, laughing hysterically while 
she got closer and closer to me with her jiggly 
wiggly fingers.  I started to squirm, yelling 
"No!  Stop!  It isn't fair!"  But she didn't 
stop, and that's when I lost all bladder control.

	A gush of pee coursed down the insides of 
my legs soaking my peddle pushers, staining my 
socks and filling my shoes.  A puddle of urine 
bloomed around me.  My sister was ecstatic.  And 
that's when my father and Joel Lubar came out of 
the workshop, passed through the room and headed 
up the basement stairs.  Joel Lubar looked back 
at me from up on the stairs.  "What's the 
matter?" he taunted me.  "Is there anything 
wrong?"  He smiled a knowing smile and shook his 
head before continuing up the stairs.

	I was caught.  I was seen.  I was 
observed in a lake of my own urine, my legs 
crossed and tears streaming down my face.  The 
mortification was palpable, complete, stinging. 
It was at that moment that I determined I would 
no longer be ticklish.  I was going to will this 
on myself.  No more ticklish.  From then on, the 
wiggling fingers would not affect me.  From then 
on, even the direct application of pinching, 
pressure and poking in any of the ticklish zones 
would not do anything but annoy me.  I would 
start thinking of myself as someone who was not 
ticklish.

	And from that moment on, I ceased being 
susceptible to tickling.  My sister could apply 
her pummelling little hands on my waist, or under 
my arms, in back of my knees, my ribs.  Nowhere 
had any effect on me.  The most she would get was 
a sign of my displeasure because it caused a 
reflexive muscular cringing.  But no laughter, no 
loss of control, not even a smile.  I willed it 
on myself, and it took.  It was the humiliation 
that did it.  It moved me to wrench myself from 
the land of the ticklish to the stoic land of the 
impervious.  This has lasted my whole life.  I 
cannot be tickled.  This has not affected my 
ability to laugh, or even be giddy.  But it is 
impossible to make me laugh by tickling me.  Mind 
over reflex reaction.  I am cured.


                            ¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼ü¼¼¼
-- 




Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net