THIS IS NOT A TIRE

Sofa beds… they were all the rage when I was in my early teens. Everyone’s family had one and in fact I own one to date (be it a loveseat version from Ikea, but a pull-out nonetheless). Oh how convenient they were for hosting family from out of town and perfect for sleepovers, an extremely popular activity for young females. The coveted sleepover-why was spending the night such a big deal? (Sleeping over seems to still be coveted in my thirties, but for a completely different reason). I would have loved to have been the guy who designed the hide-a-bed. Imagine pitching this idea to the sofa people. “Okay guys, it’s a couch by day and bed by night. It’s also going to be the heaviest mother ‘beeper’ in the whole world. People will love them, and families will all need one.”

What I don’t think the creator of the moon lighting couch considered was the chance that a couple of tweenies would fold the bed around themselves and try returning the couch to its day time appearance with a human tucked within its multi-seating guts.

Sarah, a friend of mine, was over visiting one afternoon- most likely for a sleepover. We were hanging out in the loft above our two car garage in Nova Scotia. I cannot remember the specifics of the inaugural attempt of this daring adventure. Sarah was taller than me, but not by too much- and that’s a feat because I’m 4’11”. She had blonde curly hair and a chin that came to a lovely point. She was a horse lover and over time owned a number of them as well as competing in equestrian events all over the province. Her are a few random Sarah memories: I remember her climbing through pipes for new homes and trying to teach my dog to be a raccoon hunting dog (Where the Red Ferns Grow had a major impact on us for a time). Though unsuccessful I don’t blame her, our dog didn’t come even when you called her.

We thought it out and brainstormed a couple of different positions that might work for this submersion into the darkness. We also had to figure out who was going to go first, and being that I had come up with the brilliant idea I would be the test dummy. We did a test-run by stuffing a number of pillows into the bed to validate that it was possible to fit. However, being that the pillows never screamed out in pain we ultimately determined that one of us was going to have to experience this phenomenon first hand. “If only we had a monkey, or maybe we could squeeze Sam in just to see.” Sam, our family dog, was a black coc-a-poo weighing in at 30lbs. Therefore, his size was not relevant to my survival within the cocoon of the sofa.

Sarah lifted the end of the bed up to a 90 degree angle. I then climbed onto the bed and scooted up to the crease she had created. There was no laughter and little talking. This was serious. Very serious. I then placed my shoulders as flat to the bed as possible, and bent both of my knees in what might have looked like a running position. We didn’t want to risk any over-lapping body parts so I had both knees in contact with the bed. There was however, a limit to how bent my knees could be or how close to a right angle my hips could lay. In our expert opinion the metal bar that folds over the bed could break your leg quite easily. My eyes were facing in parallel to the bed that was not folded up. I was ready, and with sweaty palms I was covered by the end of the bed. Then slowly lifted and dropped into the inner guts of the couch. All the while Sarah was checking in with me wanting to know my status of health. I was in the hollows of the belly of the couch. Though I was frozen in place and could neither move a limb nor turn my head in the blackest dark I had ever experienced, we began to laugh. It was difficult to breath, which instigated my shouts to be removed from my prison. Sarah quickly converted the couch back into its open welcoming bed shape, and I took a deep breath of fresh air. We were elated with joy! I was under for less than 2 minutes but I felt so liberated and excited. We were laughing with such exuberance that I lost my breath all over again. My mom even checked in to make sure we were okay, as in, not up to any trouble.

As any good scientist knows, verifiable results must be easily reproduced. As a result, it was now Sarah’s turn to experience being paralyzed inside the sofa bed. She unlike myself added a stipulation to this daring action. “Please stop if I say I’m scared. If I don’t want to go all the way in, pull me out.” I agreed, but only because she would not get on the bed otherwise, and I really wanted to see what it looked like from the eagle’s eye perspective. As a trusted friend Sarah replicated the same ‘complicated’ position. I, with a bubble of laughter on the verge of over coming my composure, folded the bottom of the bed over my partner inside. I too, like Sarah, checked in with the guinea pig. I was at the tipping point, just before the bed would slip into the gallows when I heard a voice of fear and panic. “Please stop, please let me out!” shouted Sarah, in almost a plea. But the forces of knowing combined with the maturity level of a 13 year old had me push the bed in the rest of the way. Returning the sofa to its day time sitting and entertaining state. I replaced the cushions as though family hugs and waves of goodbye had just taken place, and last minute clean up was required before the new week commenced. The major difference was my friend was within the couch, and screaming to be let out. She began to demand to be removed, and I finally consented, all the while laughing as she cried out in increased hysteria. I pushed the cushions aside and grabbed hold of the bar to pull her out. But with my short stature and loss of strength due to my giggling, all focus was lost. The bed repetitively jammed at the same pivot where Sarah first cried out. After a few failed attempts I realized my friend was panicked and I was unable to pull her out. I gathered my thoughts and gave it the old ‘school girl’ try. Out popped the bed, and Sarah along with it. She was disheveled and upset, and let’s be honest, who won’t be? I said I would stop, and I didn’t. After failing to stop I then repetitively tried to pull the bed out and it kept jamming. For all she knew she was going to be resting inside the sofa for the next twenty minutes to a life time.

With a little practice we improved our technique, and even tried other people’s hide-a-beds. We began sharing our story at school, and a number of the kids did not believe it possible. As a result, Sarah and I thought it best to video the procedure. My family did not have the proper equipment to record these daring events, so Sarah brought over her family’s 10lb video recorder with a blank VHS. We once again had to think this out. How would we document this amazing feat! “Well, we should record the position and the folding part, but we’ll turn off the camera when I’m inside because you are not going to see me anyway.” Yup, turn off the camera. That is what our conclusion came to. So, this is how it appeared when watching footage on TV. In other words, it was never documented.

Lisa: Hi everybody, we are going to show you what it looks like to be folded up into a hide-a-bed. You’ll want to lie down like so on the bed (at which point I am demonstrating the position). You’ll need a friend to complete the rest of the task.
Sarah: Yeah, a real friend that will listen to you.
Lisa: Correct. Okay, we are going to shut down the camera now and complete our work. See ya after.
BLACK OUT
Sarah in real life folded me inside the couch and pulled me out
FADE IN
Lisa: (Sitting on the bed) And that is all there is to it!

We didn’t have any control over whom we roomed with while on the road. Three to a room, and seniority always took the single bed. I was a sophomore and sharing the room with a Junior and a Freshman. Both were not high on my ‘like list’ at the time, and it only changed for one of the lucky ladies in the years to come. Fortunately, what made it bearable was knowing the feelings were mutual. My college years were full of agitation, frustration and low levels of anger all the way around, from no good reason that I can discern at this point ten years later. My nick name was Penguin and I often needed my feathers to be smoothed down as they found themselves ruffled and out of place. We three played soccer for our university, and were constantly shuffled around the nation to different soccer fields. My Junior year we traveled to Europe for a pre-season game. I refer to it as my worst euro trip ever. Picture 20 girls dressed in florescent green fleecy sweaters with gold text on the back, black fleecy pants, and bright orange sneakers; oh did we stand out. Not to mention being in the beer capital of the world and not having a sip. These trips were accompanied by rules to keep order and control over our movements when not playing soccer, including with whom we roomed.

This particular trip we were in Texas for a number of matches and Bridget, the freshman, had gone out to dinner with her family. Bridget was a beautiful blonde Texan. She stood about 5’10′ and had lovely breasts that no man could miss. She carried herself knowing that she was the prize that she was (and continues to be). She was smart and tough as nails on the field, which frankly, contributed to my disliking her. Missy and I returned to our second floor extending-living apartment hotel room and had frozen dinners. These meals were provided as punishment for our poor play earlier that night. We both showered without a hitch, not to mention using all the full size towels. Missy fell asleep quickly and I was not far behind when I was woken by knocks at the door. Bridget had returned to take her rightful spot on the other side of the bed that I had made warm. She tippie-toed to the bathroom to have a shower before calling it a night… rules remember?

I heard the water come on, while I rolled over attempting to find that same comfortable spot on my side of the bed. I shut out the light. Then there was a distinct change in the sound of the water. Was she taking a bath? Who bathes in hotels? Especially one like this? Moments later the smallest voice called out for help. “Lisa, can you help me”? I rose to check out the situation. It did not sound like a ‘can you scrub my back for me’ cry (which I’m not familiar with either but I feel as though I could discern between the two). Leisurely I made my way to toward the sounds of rushing water. My eyes jumped open when the horizontal trajectory of water shooting straight out of wall toward the back of the tub was revealed. Burning hot water spraying everywhere. The source of the deluge was coming from what was once the hot water knob. The handle was in Bridget’s right hand. She was using a hand towel to cover up her ‘good bits,’ but was otherwise completely naked and clearly not comfortable with being so. The hand towel was doing little good, other than keeping her left hand from aiding in returning the tap to its rightful place on the wall.

Jumping into action, we had to stop the rushing water! How did this happen? I asked through my own laughter. Her reply was a mixture of “does it really matter now”, and “I couldn’t tell which way was off”. The next thing she knew she was holding the handle in her hand and Niagara Falls found its way to Texas. I took the knob from her and started trying to force the handle back into the grooves. The only water finding its way into the tub was as a result of it smashing into the wall running parallel with the faucet. I found that this wasn’t a very effective way to fill the tub as a majority of the water was flowing on to the floor just on the other side of the bath. The power behind the water was too much to over come; not to mention the scolding sensation during each attempt. The burning sensation made me think my skin was going to peal back off my bones. Finally after we both had tried a number of fruitless times to return the handle to its rightful place I called the game and said, “I think we are going to need some help.” I went into the room, still no movement from Missy, and proceeded to call our coach, after curfew no less. No answer. Called our assistant coach, again no answer. Hummmmm, perhaps we should try the trainer? In retrospect, what was she going to do, tape it like an ankle? Finally, and most likely the brightest idea we had had all night, we called the front desk. The water was so loud it was hard to hear him, and also speak at a level that wold not disturb the slumber of our roommate. Who new driving water in a confined space would be so deafening? I explained to the front desk guy what was taking place in our unit. He seemed rather disinterested and said that it would be really expensive to bring a plumber out at this hour. He followed that statement up with reassuring comments that the plumber would be out first thing in the morning. I pleaded with him to come out and see the room and then make that judgment call. We have Niagara Falls in our Room! But he remained firm. At that point I put the phone down and Bridget and I began laughing at the situation. The room was beginning to feel like a sauna due to the volume of hot water being pumped into the room. We pulled the door closed, which did little for the sound, but it made us feel better. We made our way to the bed.

We woke to a soggy floor and a rain forest feel in the air. The carpet from the bathroom to half way out into the room was water logged. Missy, who missed all the action, was confused and slightly disgusted by the state of affairs. We all managed to prep for breakfast next to the falls. We needed a sign that stated “slicker and galoshes beyond this point” when brushing our teeth. As promised, a plumber arrived at our door first thing in the morning as we were heading out to team breakfast. Three twists of his wrench the bathroom was silenced, Niagara Falls returned to the boarder of Canada and the US. However, the hotel faced costs that easily could have been prevented. The room below us was also flooded and would need to be completely renovated.

There are a number of different socially awkward avenues in which advertisers attempt to present their product. But when was the last time you saw, or have you ever seen, four good looking older men out for a joy ride? Water bottles in hand, laughing about not having to run to the restroom. Now I ask you, is this really something to laugh about at any age? I’ll give you four 17 year old boys out riding around in Dad’s car (because he is home having to use the restroom…I’m led to believe). I’ll even give you four 23 year old males out cycling (because they haven’t yet figured out how to really be with a woman) but not 60 year olds. And let’s be honest, unless you’re in sales and trying to pump up your ‘buddy’ to help him close the deal, no one hands out that many high fives.

Perhaps my point is being missed. Picture this: four women in their fifties, playing mahjong and talking about their female parts; going on about the pains of aging. Having any trouble? No, i didn’t think so. Put any two women in the same room and before long they WILL talk about what is currently out of ‘homeostasis’ with their body. It’s considered bonding in woman world, discussing the intimate parts and drugs your doctor recommends. Now substitute guys, and you have ‘urinating too frequently’ commercials; except it doesn’t seem right. Aside from my father talking to his brother, I’ve never heard him discuss his health with anyone, let alone celebrate the new prescription he is taking with his buddies. How manly is sharing your daily legal drug intake? Or better yet, the need to constantly have to make a pit stop?

Followed up with… why, if you had a condition that made you have to visit the commode often would you drink large volumes of water? All the commercials have these gentlemen in hand with large water bottles. Even Eco-friendly refillable containers in some cases. Yes, prop designer, I noticed…trying to win over a few ‘green’ older guys, I kind of like it! Bravo you, just that the writer missed it on the whole … it doesn’t really exist…this gathering of sleek suave silver seniors. If you want to reach your demographic place four well preserved women in their fifties talking. One mentions how much happier her husband is now that he is on the pee-less pill. Then all the other hens in the room want to know the name of it because their husbands wake up in the middle of the night to visit the ‘john’. Now you have a commercial! The nagging to go to the doctor is off and running. How many of you grew up with Doctor Mom? Well, my mom didn’t go to medical school, but aside from being a road side detective she also has her MD. People ultimately cave to her medical advice (and quite often she is correct). I know she is not the only one out there with a similar life degree. These are the ladies bringing their husbands to doctor’s offices for the drug that ‘dries up your liquid by-products.’

Rotating doors are designed to allow the greatest number of people to move in and out of buildings with minimal loss of heat and air conditioning. Furthermore they’re built with the allotment of 2 people with bags, at airports specifically. Yet we see it time and time again…3 people with bags. The door jams and no one goes anywhere and the mice stop moving and begin pointing fingers (I’ll bypass via the sliding doors just round the corner, sorry power bill). I’m looking at you, oh yes, you sir…he who squeezed in the revolving door, it’s your bag stopping the show. Once released from the glass jail and into the airport, people continue to scamper from line to line, not realizing that there is very little they can do to affect the rate unto which they reach their final destination. Think of it like a doctor’s office; it’s going to take much longer than you expect, but you will get seen in the end. Status means very little when there is no plane.

Airports, Oh traveling, people who don’t have motor memory skills with regards to parking at their local airport, find moving about the country fun, and exciting! Waking up in one part of the country and having a night cap in a new time zone, it’s just darling. But, and this is a big butt (oops, an extra ‘T’ on the end…I’ll go with it…as in some cases, it is correct) those who travel regularly, and not for fun, usually adopt one of two attitudes when travel gets tough. This I think has to do greatly with how much you enjoy your life at large.

The first group, Fly-ist Maximus, tends to push their way through lines with a sense of entitlement; even when the exodus of said particular terminal is on time…you’ve seen him, the guy who stands next to the gate agent waiting even though he has a seat AND gold status with said airline. Self crowned, when issues arise waving his saber, which only he can see, approaches the gate agents, yelling; complaining to anyone who will listen. They help fire up the chants of injustice due to the late departure. This group, oh my, they hate the airport, and nonetheless they just won’t give it up. Perhaps home is worse than the road…

Everyone has a great story of how bad things were at airport XYZ…it just takes one time to scar travelers…
Was it weather that cancelled this flight?
Because if its weather you don’t have to give me a refund?
Oh, the other connections are over-sold?
My my, what will I do? Stay in a crap hotel?
Then bus it back here in the morning?
Classic!

There are many careers I would not like to pursue; however, at the top of my list (at least, today) is and airline gate agent. So little control, and yet they have to bear the brunt of the pain. I’m guessing a late arrival and subsequently late departure is just as much a headache for them as it is to travelers. They have lives outside the terminal as well, and surely they would like to live them. Yes, gate agents have more information than we do; however, like travelers no control…this certainly isn’t happening

“Gate agent to tower, over”
“Tower here, over.”
“Yes, I’m going to need flight 437 on the ground in the next five minutes, got it”?
“Totally, sorry…not sure what we were thinking up here…lots going on, but 437 is on its way in, with priority, over”
“Thank you, Gate A34 over and out.”

The second group, The Pacifists, makes back- up plans via whatever means are available, and rest. Knowing a long night is on the horizon, its key to conserve energy. Its as if they took survival training in a different aspect of their life and have the smarts to overlap it to travel. Fluids (non-acholic, I know…its quite shocking, but its true) and cell phone chargers are key to making it out alive.

Rest assured you as a passenger are no more important to the airlines than the checked baggage under the plane.