Shake, Rattle & Cringe

We recently returned from one of our many business trips to LA, so it was particularly disturbing to hear about the earthquake. I was at the gym when it happened, and the owner dashed into the workout room looking for me because he knows the city is my former home and my current second home. “Did you hear?” he asked excitedly. Given the fact that I was doing squats on the power plate with a large ball between my knees, I hadn’t. I hurried to the TV monitors, but the news was so recent that there wasn’t much information available.

Over time, the 5.8 magnitude was reduced to 5.4, which is still considered moderate. And to me, scary.

I experienced one earthquake while living in mid-Wilshire—a weenie 3-point-something—and I was terrified. It was the middle of the workday, and I was home alone in the loft that served as my studio. Suddenly, everything on my desk started to slide off. I looked out the window, and the pool was churning as if someone had turned on a wave machine. My husband was at a client meeting, so I called the management office of our building.

“Was that what I think it was?” I asked, a discernible tremble in my voice.

“Oh, it was just a little earthquake,” came the casual reply.

“You don’t get it,” I answered, trying to stay calm. “I grew up in New Jersey, and there’s no such thing as a little earthquake.”

Clearly, we get used to the weather patterns we’ve grown up with, and everything else becomes alien. My younger son has been living in the Midwest—California boy that he is, he’s paralyzed by the tornado warning sirens. I have a friend in New York who thinks it’s crazy to live on the west coast because of all the faults, but she probably wouldn’t blink when a hurricane hits the Jersey shore. That’s simply what happens, so it feels perfectly normal.

As for me, I doubt I’ll ever get used to the earth moving beneath my feet.