When I was little, my mom gave me a complex (as moms are inclined to do.. some sort of weird experiments in social control, I'd imagine) about escalators. For a while, I was fine. But whenever we got on an escalator, she'd make it very clear that my life was at stake, that I should not move, or let go of her hand, or disappear from her sight, as doing so would result in immediate pulverization. Once I escaped with my little sister and ran down the escalator the wrong way, to see what would happen, and she screamed. There, in the middle of the department store, as though the apocalypse had come and satan's minions were skinning her babies alive. And of course, when you're young, that sort of conditioning can't help but do permanent damage to your psyche.

And so, as I got older, I became more and more reluctant to ride the escalator. During my pre-adolescence, I'd go out with friends and be shamed when I could not force myself to step onto that horrifying machine. All I could think of was that I would misstep, that the shifting mechanism would move beneath my carefully placed foot and leave me off balance, dooming me to tumble down, ending up with limbs and clothing sucked between the steps, crushed and bloodied.

I'm mostly over that now, reason asserts control and I manage to get on with little hesitation, though I often run up or down, and always take the stairs if it's an option. Funny thing is, when I display any hint of fear about the escalator, my mom laughs at me as though I'm being a complete idiot.