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Whoopee!

The Source

I’d not heard the term before. She said, “Mr. Bradbury, it was a real Whoopee moment!” Whoopee moment? “It was my last test of the semester and I walked outside the door of the building and smelled the wind and stuff and I was totally, like whoopee!” I guess when we don’t have the proper terms we’re likely to make them up. This former student of mind had experienced a sort of release of euphoria that for lack of a better term (remember, she thought that wind smelled) she called “Whoopee.” Sounds fine to me and so I wondered if at my advanced age I still experience any whoopee moments, exhilarating times that may occur at intervals and cause me to at least inwardly shout, “Whoopee!” One came readily to mind. You may have experienced it. You’ve arrived at the airport two hours early, had your bags sniffed by a curious dog with a drug license, been told that your gate is two miles down the concourse, then you see it. . . the security line stretching all the way back to Murrayville. It’s obvious by the look on some of the faces in line that they may have spent the night there. People are tossing their liquids (both aeronautical and gastronomical), stowing their electronics, taking off their shoes, removing their jewelry, and stripping down to the barest of essentials as they prepare to walk through the doorway of death set up by the TSA. They look to the head of the line and see some passengers being patted down, others submitting to full body screenings, and an unfortunate few being taken aside for further inspection. In my case I take everything out of my pockets and store them in carry-on bag, then take off my suspenders with the metal clips. The most dangerous part of flying has nothing to do with altitude, explosions or terrorists. It’s raising up my arms for scanning when I’m not wearing suspenders. This involves spreading your legs very widely apart hoping to provide enough ballast and friction to keep your drawers up. And it never fails . . . once they wave me on through and I grab my pants while trying to retrieve my scanned tray of belongings I always want to shout, “Whoopee!” There’s something about that heady moment that makes me want to jump up and click my heels, or it would if I had suspenders. Whoopee Moment #2: You’ve had that cough for two weeks. It sounds exactly like the rasp Uncle Ralph had just before he died. It keeps you up at night so you turn on the TV where they’re airing a documentary about lung disease. Your mind races to all your friends who’ve suffered from pneumonia. Finally you give in and make an appointment with the doctor who listens to your lungs, looks up your nose, checks your ears and asks you cough, then just as you’re about to ask him long you have to live he tells you have a cold and prescribes and handful of pills. You walk past the archive of petrified magazines in his waiting room, stroll into the parking lot and shout, “Whoopee!” Whoopee Three. . . when the monthly meeting you dread is cancelled. #4 Whoopee. . . You open a letter from the utility company and read, “This is not a bill.” Five-ish Whoopee. . . Your family told you that all you had to do for the wedding reception was to pick up the cake. You’re the one who owns the SUV with the big back seat. The confectioner has carried the masterpiece to the car for you and you’re a block from the reception hall when this idiot pulls his pickup truck right out in front of you. In the first nano-second you slam on the brakes and in the second tiny slice of time you realize there’s a wedding cake in the back seat and your hand instinctively reaches over the center console and grabs the box just before the night’s dessert becomes a part of your dashboard. You save both the bumper and the cake and all you can think of is, “Whoopee!” Whoopee Moment #6: When you finally get the cake to the head table and it becomes someone else’s problem. Number 7 in the Whoopee Parade: The preachers says, “In conclusion . . . “ 8th Reason for Whoopee. . . They announce, “The tornado warning for our area has expired.” Some of my friends favor other phrases. Those under twenty tend to shout, “Yes!” while some of my more spiritual brethren would raise their hands (unless they were driving with a cake) for a loud “Amen!” or “Praise God!” or “Thank you, Jesus!” But if you don’t have time to think of the proper ecumenical phrase I’d gladly offer you the words of my former student coming out of her last final exam. Whoopee! God will know what you mean.