About a year ago, I had to have an MRI of my spine. If I’d known that a fifteen-year-old injury from 9th grade cheerleading would lead to me being stuck in a narrow, loud plastic tunnel, I would have never picked up a pompom to begin with.
I’ve never done well with small, confined spaces. I remember one summer finding myself on a rickety old elevator in Russia with a friend, shakily traveling up eight stories of a run-down apartment building. The door didn’t quite shut all of the way, so our eyes followed the concrete shaft as we traveled up. The elevator was so small that it barely fit the two of us. We were shoulder to shoulder, with very little space before or behind us. Well, what was already a less than comfortable situation got even tighter when the elevator stopped to let a third person on for the ride. This native Russian seemed quite unphased by the lack of room, and smooshed right on in. That ride up to the eighth floor couldn’t have ended soon enough. Nowadays, I prefer to take the stairs if it’s an option.