Wendy K. Mages
Ridiculous Rituals: Reasons, Rules, and a Rationale
I look up. My niece, Nora, is coming down the stairs wearing her pajamas inside-out and backwards. Nora’s in middle school. I’m staying with her while her parents are out of town.
“What’s with the pajamas?” I ask.
“If we wear our pajamas inside out and backwards, it’ll snow and, when we wake up the next morning, we’ll have a snow day.”
“Really?” I ask with more than a bit of sarcasm.
“All my friends are doing it.”
It seems, according to her friends, and the Internet, you can also increase the probability of a snow day if you sleep with a spoon under your pillow, run around the dining room table five times before you go to sleep, or flush an ice cube down the toilet. Who knew? Nora and her friends diligently perform these ridiculous rituals (typically the night before a big test). Perhaps I’m a skeptic, but I’m not surprised that they have yet to see a snow day.
A few days later, I’m on campus sitting in my office preparing for the two grad school classes I have to teach that evening, when the phone rings. The nurse at Nora’s school tells me Nora’s sick and needs to be picked up. I feel a rising sense of panic, unsure if I will have time to get Nora home and return to campus to teach my classes.
I do a quick calculation and, if all goes well, I can pick her up at school, drop her off at home, and still make it back in time to teach, which means I don’t have to cancel class. I’m a recent hire. As a new faculty member, I’m not sure about all of the protocols and forms for canceling a class and notifying students. I do know, however, that my boss will not be pleased if I have to cancel class at the last minute and he’ll be particularly peeved if students complain about the lack of advanced notice. Everyone is always giving lip service to the myth of work-life balance, but the “requests” of a demanding boss—and the unspoken threat of losing your job—put a thumb on that mythological scale. Typically, I work long hours and take on projects that leave little time for the “life” part of the equation. But this is different. Nora needs me and I need to be there for her.
Once I get her home, I can count on a friend to come over and take care of her until I get back from class. Nonetheless, I’m conflicted. It just doesn’t feel right to abandon Nora and leave her with someone else when she’s sick and may need me. And what if her condition worsens while I’m heading back to work or while I’m in class? I realize if I want this “rescue mission” to succeed, I have no time to contemplate all of the “what ifs”; I have to get on the road as quickly as possible.
Although I’m in a hurry, skipping a pit stop before hitting the road is not an option. I dash down the hall to the ladies room. As luck would have it, the toilet won’t flush! Then the water in the sink barely dribbles out. It’s clear something’s broken, but I have a sick kid to worry about. I use a paper towel to remove the soap residue still on my hands and run back to my office, grab my coat, and head for the elevator.
Suddenly, a loud alarm squawks twice. Then, over an intercom I didn’t even know we had, a disembodied voice announces, “There has been a water main break. There has been a water main break.”
As the voice on the intercom reverberates down the hall, the alarm squawks again and the message repeats. I understand the words echoing in the halls, but what exactly does the message mean? We all know what to do when there’s a fire, but what are you supposed to do when there’s a water main break?
As I pass security on my way to the front door, I mention the problem with the bathroom (which I’m now starting to realize is probably related to the water main break), and ask, “What are we supposed to do about the water main break? Do we need to evacuate the building, like when there’s a fire alarm?”
“At this point, we just sit tight. If they can fix the break, we do nothing. If they can’t fix it, we may have to close the building and cancel evening classes.”
“What are the chances classes will be canceled?”
“Don’t know yet. We’re waiting to hear how long it’ll take to fix the water main. I guess it depends on how bad the break is.”
Perhaps he reads the concern on my face, because he hands me his direct dial number on a sticky note. “Feel free to call for updates,” he says, offering a sympathetic smile. I take the sticky note and head out to my car.
When I arrive at Nora’s school, I’m told I have to wait for the nurse to bring her downstairs. I quickly pull out my phone and call the number on the sticky note.
“We’re still waiting,” he tells me.
When Nora arrives, pale and a looking a bit green, we get into my car and head home. On the way, I tell her about the water main break and that I’m hoping classes will be cancelled, so I can stay home to make sure she’s okay. We realize at this moment, we don’t need a snow day; we need a water-main-break day. Unfortunately, we don’t know any water-main-break rituals. But we’re resourceful.
We begin to review the snow-day rituals. Most involve doing something before you go to sleep, wearing something to sleep, or sleeping with something under your pillow. We have no time for sleep. But the “ice-cube-in-the-toilet” ritual seems strangely apropos. After all, the water main break prevented the toilet from flushing. But I’m a practical person, and a bit of a skeptic. So, when we get home, I don’t head to the freezer for an ice cube. Instead, I call the security desk for an update.
“Still waiting,” he tells me.
Despite or perhaps because of her queasiness, Nora wants to try the ritual.
“Why not?” I say smiling wryly. “What do we have to lose?”
Nora, with a sudden burst of energy, rushes to get the ice cube from the freezer and we head upstairs to the bathroom giggling as we go. It seems less than ceremonial to simply drop the ice cube in the toilet and flush. We decide we need a few magic words, just to make sure there’s no confusion about whether we want a snow day or a water-main-break day. We come up with some impromptu abracadabra wishing-words, solemnly drop the ice cube into the toilet, and flush. For a brief moment we believe in the magic of incantations, in frog princes, unicorns, and fairy queens. We look at each other, standing like sentries gazing into the depths of an enchanted cistern. Again we giggle. The sound resonates on the hard surfaces. The glossy ceramic tile and porcelain toilet bowl amplify our laughter, the vibrations magnifying our hopes, apprehensions, and wildly fanciful expectations. We head back downstairs.
Even before I reach the bottom of the staircase, I catch sight of the clock. Like Cinderella at the ball, the late hour abruptly heralds of the constraints of my circumstances. With each strike of the clock, hope fades, just as Cinderella’s enchanted coach and all of her finery vanish at the stroke of midnight. I take a deep breath to calm my worries and again begin to calculate. To make it back to campus in late-afternoon traffic, I’ll have to leave within the next 3 minutes. As I place my coat and purse by the door, so I can leave as soon as our friend arrives to care for Nora, I notice the sticky note stuck to the cuff of my coat. I pull it off and decide to call the security desk one last time before heading out.
Much to the dismay of many school children, it turns out that the ice-cube-in-the-toilet ritual may not pass the tried-and-true test, if you need a snow day. But, if someday you happen to have a health emergency and a water-main break on the same afternoon, Nora and I can attest, it works like a charm.
Wendy K. Mages, a Professor at Mercy College, is a storyteller and educator who earned a master’s and a doctoral degree in Human Development and Psychology at the Harvard Graduate School of Education and a master’s degree in Theatre at Northwestern University. Her research focuses on the effect of the arts on learning and development. As a compliment to her research, she performs original stories at storytelling events and festivals in the United States and abroad. Some of her stories appear in The Journal of Stories in Science and Potato Soup Journal. A triptych of her poems appears in Scenario.
“What’s with the pajamas?” I ask.
“If we wear our pajamas inside out and backwards, it’ll snow and, when we wake up the next morning, we’ll have a snow day.”
“Really?” I ask with more than a bit of sarcasm.
“All my friends are doing it.”
It seems, according to her friends, and the Internet, you can also increase the probability of a snow day if you sleep with a spoon under your pillow, run around the dining room table five times before you go to sleep, or flush an ice cube down the toilet. Who knew? Nora and her friends diligently perform these ridiculous rituals (typically the night before a big test). Perhaps I’m a skeptic, but I’m not surprised that they have yet to see a snow day.
A few days later, I’m on campus sitting in my office preparing for the two grad school classes I have to teach that evening, when the phone rings. The nurse at Nora’s school tells me Nora’s sick and needs to be picked up. I feel a rising sense of panic, unsure if I will have time to get Nora home and return to campus to teach my classes.
I do a quick calculation and, if all goes well, I can pick her up at school, drop her off at home, and still make it back in time to teach, which means I don’t have to cancel class. I’m a recent hire. As a new faculty member, I’m not sure about all of the protocols and forms for canceling a class and notifying students. I do know, however, that my boss will not be pleased if I have to cancel class at the last minute and he’ll be particularly peeved if students complain about the lack of advanced notice. Everyone is always giving lip service to the myth of work-life balance, but the “requests” of a demanding boss—and the unspoken threat of losing your job—put a thumb on that mythological scale. Typically, I work long hours and take on projects that leave little time for the “life” part of the equation. But this is different. Nora needs me and I need to be there for her.
Once I get her home, I can count on a friend to come over and take care of her until I get back from class. Nonetheless, I’m conflicted. It just doesn’t feel right to abandon Nora and leave her with someone else when she’s sick and may need me. And what if her condition worsens while I’m heading back to work or while I’m in class? I realize if I want this “rescue mission” to succeed, I have no time to contemplate all of the “what ifs”; I have to get on the road as quickly as possible.
Although I’m in a hurry, skipping a pit stop before hitting the road is not an option. I dash down the hall to the ladies room. As luck would have it, the toilet won’t flush! Then the water in the sink barely dribbles out. It’s clear something’s broken, but I have a sick kid to worry about. I use a paper towel to remove the soap residue still on my hands and run back to my office, grab my coat, and head for the elevator.
Suddenly, a loud alarm squawks twice. Then, over an intercom I didn’t even know we had, a disembodied voice announces, “There has been a water main break. There has been a water main break.”
As the voice on the intercom reverberates down the hall, the alarm squawks again and the message repeats. I understand the words echoing in the halls, but what exactly does the message mean? We all know what to do when there’s a fire, but what are you supposed to do when there’s a water main break?
As I pass security on my way to the front door, I mention the problem with the bathroom (which I’m now starting to realize is probably related to the water main break), and ask, “What are we supposed to do about the water main break? Do we need to evacuate the building, like when there’s a fire alarm?”
“At this point, we just sit tight. If they can fix the break, we do nothing. If they can’t fix it, we may have to close the building and cancel evening classes.”
“What are the chances classes will be canceled?”
“Don’t know yet. We’re waiting to hear how long it’ll take to fix the water main. I guess it depends on how bad the break is.”
Perhaps he reads the concern on my face, because he hands me his direct dial number on a sticky note. “Feel free to call for updates,” he says, offering a sympathetic smile. I take the sticky note and head out to my car.
When I arrive at Nora’s school, I’m told I have to wait for the nurse to bring her downstairs. I quickly pull out my phone and call the number on the sticky note.
“We’re still waiting,” he tells me.
When Nora arrives, pale and a looking a bit green, we get into my car and head home. On the way, I tell her about the water main break and that I’m hoping classes will be cancelled, so I can stay home to make sure she’s okay. We realize at this moment, we don’t need a snow day; we need a water-main-break day. Unfortunately, we don’t know any water-main-break rituals. But we’re resourceful.
We begin to review the snow-day rituals. Most involve doing something before you go to sleep, wearing something to sleep, or sleeping with something under your pillow. We have no time for sleep. But the “ice-cube-in-the-toilet” ritual seems strangely apropos. After all, the water main break prevented the toilet from flushing. But I’m a practical person, and a bit of a skeptic. So, when we get home, I don’t head to the freezer for an ice cube. Instead, I call the security desk for an update.
“Still waiting,” he tells me.
Despite or perhaps because of her queasiness, Nora wants to try the ritual.
“Why not?” I say smiling wryly. “What do we have to lose?”
Nora, with a sudden burst of energy, rushes to get the ice cube from the freezer and we head upstairs to the bathroom giggling as we go. It seems less than ceremonial to simply drop the ice cube in the toilet and flush. We decide we need a few magic words, just to make sure there’s no confusion about whether we want a snow day or a water-main-break day. We come up with some impromptu abracadabra wishing-words, solemnly drop the ice cube into the toilet, and flush. For a brief moment we believe in the magic of incantations, in frog princes, unicorns, and fairy queens. We look at each other, standing like sentries gazing into the depths of an enchanted cistern. Again we giggle. The sound resonates on the hard surfaces. The glossy ceramic tile and porcelain toilet bowl amplify our laughter, the vibrations magnifying our hopes, apprehensions, and wildly fanciful expectations. We head back downstairs.
Even before I reach the bottom of the staircase, I catch sight of the clock. Like Cinderella at the ball, the late hour abruptly heralds of the constraints of my circumstances. With each strike of the clock, hope fades, just as Cinderella’s enchanted coach and all of her finery vanish at the stroke of midnight. I take a deep breath to calm my worries and again begin to calculate. To make it back to campus in late-afternoon traffic, I’ll have to leave within the next 3 minutes. As I place my coat and purse by the door, so I can leave as soon as our friend arrives to care for Nora, I notice the sticky note stuck to the cuff of my coat. I pull it off and decide to call the security desk one last time before heading out.
Much to the dismay of many school children, it turns out that the ice-cube-in-the-toilet ritual may not pass the tried-and-true test, if you need a snow day. But, if someday you happen to have a health emergency and a water-main break on the same afternoon, Nora and I can attest, it works like a charm.
Wendy K. Mages, a Professor at Mercy College, is a storyteller and educator who earned a master’s and a doctoral degree in Human Development and Psychology at the Harvard Graduate School of Education and a master’s degree in Theatre at Northwestern University. Her research focuses on the effect of the arts on learning and development. As a compliment to her research, she performs original stories at storytelling events and festivals in the United States and abroad. Some of her stories appear in The Journal of Stories in Science and Potato Soup Journal. A triptych of her poems appears in Scenario.