Next Time I’m Taking the Stairs
I’m afraid of elevators. I’m always concerned I’ll get stuck or it will plummet or if I try to use my arm to stop the doors from closing that it will lop my limb off and I’ll be forced to wear a hook and anyone who knows me can tell you that I rub my eyes when I’m stressed, so a hook hand is a risk I’m not willing to take.
I currently work on the 12th floor of a large building. Twelve flights of stairs is a lot. I know this not just from speculation, but because after one unnecessary fire alarm evacuation I tore down those stairs in my brown heels. This experience is why I stick to elevator.
The thing is, there are elevator perils you don’t necessarily consider until you have to take the lift up to four times a day or more. They come in the form of elevator companions.
For instance, I have a sensitive sniffer. I have issues with my sense of smell and I try to use it more than the average person. (There’s a whole reason for that, but it will get its own post someday after more therapy.) When you have a hard-core smeller, innocuous aromas can get to you. This brings us to the “they can’t tell I was smoking again if I dowse myself with perfume” elevator partner. Oy.
There you are, trapped in an 6×6 room with the scent of menthols clinging to her knit sweater and the fresh burst of perfume she added to cover the smell. Why do people think this is a good plan?
Another travel companion who distresses me is the “cell phone talker.” Admittedly, I use my phone a lot. I’m a big texter. But here’s the thing about elevator cell phone use–you’re most likely going to lose reception, we have nowhere to go to pretend that we’re not listening in, and those walls bounce your bad jokes back to every one of us. It’s a little too personal.
Then there’s the “let’s continue this meeting on the way out” group. This is a group of about six people who all decide to join the elevator with you, squishing you into the corner, which is decidedly unpleasant enough, but even worse if you’re a closeted claustrophobe like myself. Then they keep up an animated discussion that often involves hand guestures that scarcely fit in their conference room, let alone our wee space.
Sometimes you get an off-shoot of this breed with the “buddy, I have to finish this story” type. I really don’t have much of a problem with foul language, but when the guy across the hall insists on dropping his f-bomb stories everytime you leave for lunch, it gets a little old.
I felt the need to share this frustration with you today. I’ve dealt with the “earthy hippy, I ride my bike that I take on the elevator with me and I don’t shave my legs” type, the “I can see that you’re trying to get the door open and even though we’ve made eye contact, I’m just not going to help you” type, and the “I’m not part of your conversation but I feel as though we’re close enough that I can chime in” type.
Me? I’m the “stand in the corner by the numbers, reading a book or texting and hitting my floor over and over in an attempt to get there faster” type. It’s who I am.