Originally published in The Clifton Courier, February 28, 2018

Everyone has something they just can’t stand.

But I’m not talking big picture stuff like gender discrimination or neglectful environmental management. That stuff goes without saying.

I’m talking about small, seemingly trivial stuff that, for whatever reason, we have adverse reactions to.

For example, I have a friend who hates bananas. Hates them. It’s not like they’ve done anything to her – she’s never been personally victimised by a yellow, curved fruit or anything. She just can’t stand them. She won’t have anything to do with any food that contains banana as an ingredient. And it’s not just the taste; she can’t even stand the thought of touching their skins.

It’s not a phobia of bananas though; there’s no fear, just a deep, unexplainable dislike.

And we all have things like that.  There are certain things that, for some illogical reason, make us sick to our stomachs. Things we find so repulsive we can’t help but have a physical reaction to. Personally, I have a few. I hate it when people drag things along carpet. I hate the feel of dry shampoo on my fingers. I hate looking at my bank account (just another “I’m a twenty-something-mess” quip for you, to stay on brand).

But perhaps my biggest one is something so completely trivial that it perfectly epitomises the notion of First World Problems: broken escalators.

They’re the worst.

And as self-promoting as this sounds, my distain for the unmoving escalator isn’t rooted in laziness. I’m usually that person who walks up escalators. Not so much because I have somewhere important to be (to have somewhere important to be, you have to be important to begin with, and I’m in no danger of that), but because I just hate waiting there. I also like the idea that by taking extra steps, I’m shaping and firming my glutes. And if you’ve ever seen a Maguire from behind, you’ll know we need all the glute shaping we can get.

The truth is that I get motion sickness from stationary escalators. Yes, I’m aware of how that sounds. But it’s true.

I guess you could call it motion-less sickness.

Even though I can see the escalators aren’t moving, my brain expects them to be. And so my brain prepares me, someone who knows full well that those stairs aren’t moving, for motion.

What results is an extremely visible brain malfunction.

I involuntarily lift my foot up much higher than a usual step would require and step on to the static stairs like I’m dipping a toe into water I’m not sure the temperature of. It looks like I’ve forgotten how my legs work.

As this happens, I noticeably dry-retch and do this weird, breathy vomity burp thing. Sometimes I even make a gasping noise, like I’m trying to breathe through my mouth with a gob full of dry Weet-Bix. I don’t really know how to describe this impulse in another other way than the way you’d respond if someone suggested your grandmother was still sexually active (but good on her, I say – you’re never too old for love).

I try to pull myself together to walk down the stairs, but grip on to the rail for dear life, trying not to look down.

As I walk away, I’m shaky, clammy-handed and, while not proven by a medical-grade thermometer, my core temp has risen by a good 10 degrees.

I can’t explain this behaviour. I can’t say exactly why escalators affect me so much. And I don’t know what this means about my overall state of mind.

I don’t have any answers to neatly wrap up this column.

So, instead, I’ll just say this: to all the escalator tradies out there, please know that your work is very noble indeed. You have my eternal gratitude. And the next time I toast, I’ll raise my glass to you.