At some moments it occurs to me more than others that I am probably not the first person any one should choose to have along during an emergency.
I don't tend to freak out, so don't worry about that. I'm not wailing, or hyperventilating or crying or panicking in any overtly troubling way. In fact, now, when I hear that bloodcurdling scream that can only come from a child with copious amounts of blood, I coolly grab the keys to the car, and throw on some shoes.
I don't shut down.
I won't become catatonic on you, either. I'm not going to become dead weight. I won't need to be carried out babbling or anything. I will be the one who ties you a tourniquet that I fashioned from two sticks and a bra strap. Your emergency is under control.
The problem really starts to surface when the emergency involves me. Will I be able to put on my life vest and blow calmly into the red tube to inflate? Yes, of course. Will I be able to assist the flight attendant with the Exit? Certainly. Will I adjust my mask before helping others? Just like I'm told.
Will I be focused on the task at hand?
Hell no. I will be thinking how awful I'll look when they find me in the sea, mascara all runny. I'll be thinking that I wish I'd packed pretty underwear instead of everyday so that when the rescuers sort through my belongings, they'll think I was elegant rather than practical. Hoping that Spanx will be able to resist G forces, leaving my artificially trim waistline while clinging to my seat cushion.
Today, in by far the worst of the Isaac weather, my kids went back to school amid tornado watches and warnings. Mind you, we DID get that day in the pool on Monday. But, today they're back.
I'm not worried about them in their cinder block buildings with competent, safety oriented faculty and staff.
I'm worried about my sorry butt. I will run to the under-stairs closet. But mind you, I'll really be thinking about how crappy my house is going to look on TV after my closet explodes into the backyard.
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