Friday, March 05, 2010

:: The elevator of guilt ::

My office is on the second floor of our building, and to get to that floor there are – obviously – two options: the stairs, or the world's slowest elevator.

Because climbing two flights of stair is not exactly the biggest endurance test on the planet – even for me – this is the option I take almost every single day. Most of us here do, as a matter of fact, except for one entire department, whose members seem to think that having to carry a soft-side briefcase with six papers in it is too much of a strain, thus making the elevator the only option.

But I digress...

The stairs are by far the best option. For starters, this elevator is painfully slow, like I mentioned, even though there are only two floors in the building – therefore, the elevator "car"* is never very far away. But still, you have time to make an entire fucking sandwich, eat it and digest it in the time between pushing the 'up' button and actually setting foot inside.

(*That's what it's called. I Googled it.)

Also, as far as getting some exercise goes, the stairs win out. So that's usually the option I choose. But you know what? There are times when I just don't want to walk up two flights.

Maybe I'm carrying a bunch of stuff; maybe my legs hurt from some other non-related incident; or maybe the elevator door just happens to open as I walk past it. Or maybe I'm just lazy, not in a hurry, and can afford to waste time waiting for it.

These occasional elevator trips were fine for months, until the new physio/sports therapy massage place opened up across the hall from our office. The main entryway of this office, you see, is directly across from the elevator doors on the second floor. So every time I take the elevator, I end up walking out onto my floor and directly into the line of sight of all the sports therapy people.

And though these people seem nice enough from the few times I've seen them around the building, they are all in ridiculously good shape. They are all trainers and masseuses, and Ironman competitors and sports-type people.

You know, the kind of people who drink Red Bull because they need the extra energy boost to go climb a mountain.

And I, of course, just want to mix it with vodka.

And though I have no clue if they are judgy-types, I tend to assume the worst in people. So now, every time I step off the elevator, I just imagine in my head what the girl behind the reception desk is thinking when she sees me.

"Hey fatchops, the stairs wouldn't kill ya."

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