We have new elevators in our building, albeit unreliable. Just moments ago, we almost became stuck in our new elevator.  Occasionally, the elevator hesitates as if defiantly thinking of what it would like to do, versus what it has been told to do.  I am a rebel.   I understand that thinking, so I smirk and wait.  Other passengers on this ride became uncomfortable.  Not me.  Amused, all I could think was how delightful it would be to be stuck in the elevator.  Not with these people necessarily, but another time, alone, maybe with a snack.

Being stuck on an elevator is the perfect reason to miss work.  Nobody gets mad about that.  The truth is, I have a manager who is so generous that I could call him and say, “I need a head-break (not that kind of head, dirty girl), and he would say, “No worries.”  Alas, I feel too guilty to do it.  I am too neurotic.  I have been irreversibly wired not to miss work unless I’m throwing or coughing up guts. Instead, I come to work with a fantasy.

A co-worker of mine got stuck and thought it was a bad thing.  It was very dramatic and everyone said, “OMG, how horrible!  Are you OK?  Someone should call the management,” and I thought, good God, don’t call the management just yet.  Lemme get in there.  What a nice break.  Plenty of oxygen for a lone, skinny girl …a quiet, undemanding reprieve.  It could be several hours on the elevator before a dramatic rescue.  That’s several hours alone with plush, new carpeting.  I could meditate, nap, daydream…separate and count with my fingers the fibers in a square inch.  The fireman will be tall, handsome, and single.  We’ll fall in love as he lifts me and carries me away, onlookers clapping.  What a great “how did you meet?” story for years to come.  I could get a LOT of mileage out of that one.  “She was trapped for several days with no shower and bathroom, and was still the prettiest thing I’d ever seen.”

What if the elevator is stinky?  Today’s almost-stuck elevator smelled as if its previous resident had just run a marathon in overripe running shorts.  I arrived with a female/male pair of suits-and I felt embarrassed for HIM.  Why?  Because I had decided the body odor left behind was MALE, (she’s so boyiced.) and, because the Suits noticed the marathon stinkiness.  They were visibly uncomfortable, but neither would mention it.   They engaged instead in small talk to assuage their shared awkwardness.  Attempting to trump the odor with gripping dialogue, they speak.

She Suit: Attempting eye contact, “So, how’s Maggie?”

He Suit:  Looking down, “Oh, she’s…. fine.”

She Suit:  Giving up, checks blackberry, “Mmm.  How’s Howard?  Do you still have that boat with him?”

He Suit:  Shifting, checking fingernails, “Yeah, he works for ….. the boat company …. now.”

How I love these delightful moments, SO worth tiny, odorless breathing to witness the display of “I’m SO not attracted to you and this elevator smells like BO and what can I say for the next 29 floors?” kind of sociology.  Thank you, Marathon Man With Dirty Shorts.

Another time, someone pooted on the elevator.  I’m paranoid, so I always fear that the person with whom I enter, or the person following me, will think it was my poot. Even worse, is the fear that one will escape ME!  Many have that fear.  The trick is in the kegel.  Forget about enhanced sexual pleasure; saving pooty-face is the REAL benefit of regular kegel exercises.  I heard someone in my office left one behind as my co-worker traded places with him in their elevator.  She held her breath all 29 floors to the lobby.  (Another office-mate regularly has gas in his office, but at least he lights candles.  Maybe he’s terminally gassy because of all the pretzels and soda he has for breakfast every morning?  I digress from elevators to offices.  Do not enter his office if the halls smell like vanilla.  This should be a universal office-rule.)  Why do people poot on an elevator?  There are different kinds of people, different types of poots, true enough.  Maybe the elevator-pooter believes he or she is of the narcissist  “my poots aren’t so bad” category.

Would I relish my elevator fantasy if it were rendered putrid by its previous inhabitants, even mildly?  Whether one chooses to embrace the elevator fantasy, smelly or not, largely depends I suppose on the quality of the elevator, the person, and the circumstance.  Admittedly, it is curious to wish myself stuck on an elevator.  Most would say this is not a fantasy worthy of further nurturing or development.  I can find many articles about the perils of being stuck on an elevator, even a stinky one.  I have not found, however, anything written on the joys or benefits of elevator stuck ness, that do not include a vibrator or a really hot stranger who is willing to rock your world inside 30 floors.

Some might judge the elevator “retreat” an inadequate or disconcerting alternative to say, a punching bag, a good sturdy yoga practice, or medication.  I say:  Relax.  It’s just an elevator fantasy, after all.  It’s a new and very clean Trump elevator.  It doesn’t require a co-pay or a leotard, and won’t reduce my sex-drive.  It’s an air-conditioned, nicely carpeted, well lit, perfectly excusable, and temporary departure from my life.  In fact, I like the idea so much, I’m going to carry emergency provisions for future rides.

]]> http://mimifla.wordpress.com/2008/07/22/hold-the-elevator/feed/ 6 mimifla http://mimifla.wordpress.com/2008/07/16/how-to-fry-an-egg/ http://mimifla.wordpress.com/2008/07/16/how-to-fry-an-egg/#comments Wed, 16 Jul 2008 14:42:05 +0000 mimifla http://mimifla.wordpress.com/?p=14 Continue reading →]]> Some men just don’t leave.  I’m talking about the “bad men.”   The ones who need you.  The ones you can’t leave.  The ones you invite back, in spite of Auntie’s and Becca’s and Mary’s and Journal’s warnings, pleadings, predictions, evidence, and wisdom worthy of iGoogle’s “Yoda Quote of the Day.”  The men you do several rounds with.  The ones who love your “essence,” and want to keep you hidden and tucked away, forever.  The ones we mostly don’t even like, but with whom we have a “connection.”  The in-between men.  The men who are more like something you ingest from a tiny plastic bag when you start to get the shakes.

They are like chickens: they hunker down, lay their eggs, and keep them warm:

And then one day, we wake up, and figure out just HOW to break the connection:

How do you like YOUR eggs?

bozo bop bag, aka me

I guess I must have a lot of sand in my feet.

Continuous beginnings are like re-cooling a very warm room after the AC has been off all day. Takes more energy than just leaving it on low.  Or, like shutting off your computer, then turning it on again…and off, and on, on off on off…eventually your hard-drive goes.  Is my hard-drive gonna go, too?

The trick is in the middle.   The white, creamy center.  If I could just GET to my middle.  Getting to the middle is seamless it seems, for some.  For me?  Not so much.  The middle is about accepting your past.  However, as I write this, I’m creating a past I know I don’t want.

So, I begin again.  I’m creating a new past.  I will get to that creamy center.