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It was a Sunday afternoon. Some circus movie, starring Tony Curtis as an escape artist, just finished playing on TV. Using the logic that only makes sense to a six year old, I got inspired to become the next Houdini. “Dave-O, the Great” was the stage name I used in my imaginary circus of the stars. I even had an agent.

Mom had this very long laundry rope she'd use to dry the clothes. I took the rope from the pantry and wrapped it around myself and the refrigerator. This was no ordinary task. I pulled this rope around each limb individually at least twice. When the wrapping was sufficiently complex, I tied the monster knot of all knots. Twelve boy scouts and Ramese II couldn’t’ve pulled this contraption apart. (Can you see this as a bad performance art routine? REFRIGERATOR, ROPE AND A SIX YEAR OLD)

Before you ask, this was not some bondage prodigy in the making. I was inexplicably confident in my ability to squirm out of this self-imposed predicament. To make it even more challenging, I pulled the rope, sliding it around my neck, arms and waist, so that the actual knot would be placed in back of the refrigerator, out of reach. “Only the truly brave would dare walk the high wire without a net ” I thought.

As it turns out, the knot/wrapping combination was more daunting than I thought. Perhaps I should have taken this as an omen to become a terrorist. Instead, after ten long minutes of slithering in vain, I had to admit defeat. There was no way I could get out. Going directly into Plan B, I started pulling on the rope, hoping to slide the knot itself within reach of my now sweaty hands.

Do you remember those clunky 1960’s refrigerators? They had this iron grid-thing in the back. My Gordian Knot got hooked on this. There was no way for the knot to reach me! Disaster! Now I am REALLY trying to pull on this rope, only to receive rope-burn, cutting off all circulation to my extremities and choking myself (like I said, this trap was intricate.) Immediately, I when into Plan C: “MOOOOOOOMMMIE!!!”

Mom jumps out of her bedroom, expecting the house to be on fire (that would happen later; let’s save that self-incriminating gem for another time) only to see her six-year-old son tied to her fridge with this sad, pathetic look on his face. I must take this moment to give the mom-unit credit where it is due: she TRIED not to laugh. Instead, she quickly disappeared into the bathroom, presumably to look for the scissors but I now know better! After freeing me from my Freon Deathtrap, she made sure I was alright. She sang to me and dried my tears and made me promise not to do anything this stupid again. With my tender feelings now assured, she then told every relative within the 413 area code, as well as every parent in the neighborhood.

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