My five-year-old and I were reading at bedtime recently when we reached what constituted her—and, presumably, many children’s—first literary fainting episode. It occurs after Wilbur the pig, getting loaded into a truck to head to the fair, hears what is doubtless the most terrifying sentence ever uttered within porcine earshot: “You’ll get some extra good ham and bacon, Homer, when it comes time to kill pig.” Wilbur immediately flags his imminent faint to a nearby sheep, the sheep urges him to kneel down so the blood will rush to his head, people start to scream and the geese cheer, the truck begins to roll away, people dash this way and that, and then, amidst the chaos, Wilbur lists over onto his side and faints away.
The hysteria of the non-fainters, Wilbur’s acceptance that he can’t fight, but must surrender to, his fate, the fear of both parties—it’s all spot on. And I should know. I’m a life-long fainter.
My parents used to call me Victorian, ever since I went to get my ears pierced at the local jewelry store. After hearing the jeweler say, “Oh, crap” after ear number one and picturing the worst—a pierced brain? unclear—I fainted, woke up soaked in sweat on the floor, then walked around like a punk for a week until we completed the job at the pediatrician’s office, with waxed paper cups of orange juice standing by in the event of a needed sugar rush. In the years since, I’ve fainted in the shower, when giving blood, on a tennis court, fl.