My parents like to claim that there isn’t a stretch of highway shoulder in the states of Wisconsin, Michigan, Minnesota, and Nebraska that I am not intimately familiar with, compliments of my propensity for motion sickness.
It is quite possibly true.
I remember very distinctly being on the side of the road between Lake Nebagamon and Maple, Wisconsin, unexpectedly staring down a very large, very green grasshopper with red eyes as I unleashed whatever had recently and all-too-temporarily been lunch upon it. I don’t know if it moved in time. I don’t really care. It’s the circle of lunch, and sometimes, there are innocent victims.
It’s not just cars. I have thrown up on or near just about every kind of conveyance known to humankind. It’s planes, too. Oh god, is it planes, and planes leaving and arriving in Tucson are the worst. Which is a bummer, because I live here. There is some kind of heat bubble effect here in our little valley ringed by mountains that makes takeoff and landing particularly bumpy, jumpy, and miserable. Even thinking/writing about it here makes me turn a little green. They say if you’re going to die in a plane crash, it’s most likely during takeoff and landing; for me, it’s usually then that I wish for death, and a plane crash doesn’t seem so bad to me, because at least then it’d be over. I haven’t managed to avoid using the little bag during my last two roundtrips, despite doping myself up with an amount of Dramamine that would cause most folks to pass out. It makes me a little nervous about my trip to California in August, but the alternative is to stay home for the rest of my life. Even that’s no guarantee, though—I’m still going to get into cars, and I get motion sick watching trains pass or even when my head is lower than my heart. I have had to walk out of movies either to be sick, or because I was getting there. I can’t play this sweet little videogame because watching the petal blowing on the wind makes me feel like blowing groceries.
I am a delicate flower, myself.
Despite some vague hopes I had as a kid that perhaps someday I would outgrow motion sickness, I was not so lucky, and have had to ask many people to pull over, lest I barf all over their fine automobile. (Anyone who’s known me awhile, and has ever driven a significant distance with me, knows that when I say “Stop the car,” there is no time to debate; you pull the fuck over.) And to my own credit, I am, through vast experience, so in tune with my own body when my eyes and inner ear disagree violently that I cannot remember a time when anyone besides myself suffered collateral damage. So, you know, I’ve got that going for me. I was never that kid who threw up in her own bed; that’s for amateurs.
So when I saw this story Tuesday about movie chairs that move and shake in concert with the action on the screen, it will not surprise you to learn that I cringed and involuntarily tightened every sphincter I possess. It is a diabolical invention second only to insurance in its evil, as far as I’m concerned. Because what you want when you’re watching Ronin is to have your chair swerving through its 57 different car chases. All the nausea, without leaving town. Wheee!
Did we really need this?