What Balloons Have Taught Me.

Hello my name is Mark and I am afraid of balloons. This fear is called Globophobia. To be more specific I am afraid of balloons popping which is called Ligyrophobia. There is a fear of balloons floating away which is called Pteromerhanoglobophobia. But I know I don’t have that because I prefer they just go away anyway.

Now I’m not afraid of all balloons mind you. I have no fear of the hot air balloon those giant bags of hot air that float across the sky like multicolored clouds that sometimes happen to be shaped like advertising icons like the Michelin Man or the fused heads of Snap, Crackle and Pop. I also have no fear of the ever popular and multifunctional foil balloons. It’s hard to be afraid of something which has a happy celebratory message on one side like, “It’s a boy!” or “Congratulations! You’re Over-hill.” And on the other side it has all the playfulness of a funhouse mirror when you look into it. Hell, I even find balloons animals quite entertaining and non-threatening. I mean who can forget Steve Martin’s attempt at balloon animals in the movie “Parenthood.” While decked out in a homemade cowboy outfit wrestling with about a dozen squeaky, pastel colored tubes of air and emerges with something resembling the L.A. Freeway system and proudly proclaims, “It’s your lower intestine!” That gets ya right here.

NO! I’m talking about those evil rubbery (yet colorful) air filled orbs of doom! The mere mention of them sends shivers up my spine and I have uncontrollable urge to cover my ears in anticipation of the “big bang.” It is probably the most evil toy in existence next to that unholy talking Teddy Ruckspin doll. How does someone design a toy that at any moment without warning explodes in your face? I imagine a couple of German storm troopers immigrated to America and got jobs as product developers for Mattel concocted this little innovation. Can you imagine that conversation?

“Hey Hans, here’s one! We can make an inflatable toy for children! Yeah and they have to blow it up themselves but if they blow it up too much…BOOM! And if they squeeze it too hard...BOOM! And we’ll make brightly colored so they seem less lethal! Genius, yaw?”

And what kind of parent allows their child to play with such a thing anyway?

“Here something my child will love! A round rubbery little thing that when deflated simulates gum when you chew it and could make them choke. Or when I inflate it for them it could potentially blow up in their face, make them cry and emotionally scar them for life! JOY!”

The devil’s play thing, I tell you.

I’m not sure where or when my fear of balloons started exactly. The most I can recall is playing with a balloon at a friend’s birthday party when I was a kid. It was a sunny summer day and his backyard was all decked out in a generic space man theme. We all got goodie bags with candy, a little plastic ray gun that shot sparks when you pulled the trigger and a balloon. Immediately I opened the bag, grabbed the balloon and started blowing it up. With each puff out of my little lungs the balloon got bigger and bigger. When it was all blown up I ran off to show everyone my new balloon. Once I got to where my friend’s were I held the balloon up to show them all my new toy and….BANG! That’s the last thing I remember. Since that day I haven’t been able to go to a birthday party, wedding or graduation party without cowering in the corner praying a balloon doesn’t go off in my immediate area. Prom was a nightmare. Toward the end of the night they dropped dozens of balloons on to the dance floor from the ceiling. For everyone else it was great fun but for me it was like being in the middle of a big rubberized mine field.

I think it’s the unpredictability of the balloon that bothers me the most. I feel the same way about ladders. One summer I had a job painting houses but I spent the most summer painting porches because I refused to climb the ladders. You never know what could happen? The ladder could tip over while you’re climbing it. A big wind could come by knocking over the ladder trapping you on the roof. And need I say anything about the bad luck you could accrue by walking under a ladder? Hmmm? The only time I ever painted a house that summer passed the second floor was when we had to paint this old Victorian home and there was an old maple tree next to it. I had no issue climbing trees. I knew the tree wasn’t going anywhere, I didn’t know what would happen on a ladder!

I’ve never been very good handling unpredictability or at least when things don’t go the way I think they should go. You see, I’m a creature of habit and for as much as I plan in my head the outcome of certain scenarios or hold tight to the course I’ve chosen eventually something pops. These last few months have been nothing but a series of balloons for me, each one more unexpected (at least to me) than the last. I was laid off from my job…POP! Someone I loved did not return that love….POP! Several friendships came to an abrupt end …POP! POP! POP! Mounting car issue…POP! A car crash…POP!! A beloved pet getting sick and facing the decision whether or not to have him put down…pop. We can never predict what’s going to happen to us, can we? The only things we can do is cover our ears, be careful where we step, do our best and keep moving forward. At least that’s what balloons have taught me.

God save the queens!

My trip to the England this time around was a bit different than the last time I was across the pond. The last time I was in the UK was about twelve years to visit my friends who were attending university. I never made it to London that trip because I was there to visit my friends, drink and have fun. I believe my mission was accomplished when I spent six out of the eleven days there drunk. The first day I was there went out at five in the evening to watch the rugby match at the pub and didn’t return to my friend’s flat until around three in the morning. Mind you, pub close at eleven at night so don’t ask me all that happened in those last four hours. The only things I clearly remember were my friend farting and accidently shitting himself then having to flush his underwear down the toilet, having a kebab on the way back to the flat and one of the boys trying to hook up with a girl, unsuccessfully. The rest of the trip is a blur of beer, cider, smoking, food, train rides and cold baths.

This time around I did make it to London and the trip was bit more subdued than the last one. This time I was more interested in a comfortable bed, seeing the sights and meeting up with old friends rather than a lost nights of drunkenness. We met up with a friend of mine for dinner and drinks that I stayed with on my first trip to the mother land. We spent the evening reminiscing about our younger years and she asked me toward the end of the night, “When did we get old?” I told her about a year ago for me. But I don’t feel we did get old. I feel we just became different. We still like to drink, we still like to go out and we still like to have a good time. We just prefer to not get drunk, not stay out late and not have so much of a good time that we don’t remember it the next morning. I can’t compare both trips because each was different at different times in my life. I learned to love England in different ways from each trip. It’s just that this time I remember more and carried a piece of it back with me to remind me of the good times when things get to be too much. Keep calm and carry on.