I spend a lot of time in elevators.
It sounds exciting, but it’s not.
Armed with that information, I will let you know that I was on one yesterday, somewhat absentmindedly returning from a Target-run (nylons, antibacterial wipes, and chocolate, which sounds like something that should get its own blog post and just might, if you’re not careful), when the doors open.
And I am propelled forward, like so many professional office drudges before me, by said doors.
Of course, it isn’t my floor, something I immediately pick up on when I notice the different carpeting.
I’m sharp like that.
“Oh,” I say, realizing that I am on the 45th floor, three full floors short of The Land of the Free and the Floor of the Brave.
I back up, and the young woman who has requested the elevator on the 45th floor gets on.
And presses “46”.
You know, no matter how many times I witness this phenomena – and nine times out of ten, it’s a fairly young person taking the one-floor elevator trip – it never fails to grab me. There are staircases in this building leading from one floor to another, and yet this person, rather than take the steps, will stop the elevator in order to ride from 45 to 46.
I check myself. Perhaps she is handicapped…
Everyone knows whistling, no matter how poorly done, indicates a disinterested air; and I do this now.
“Whee, whooo wheee whooo,” I whistle.
I sneak a sideways glance, careful to appear casual.
Young, fashionably dressed. No nylons with those heels, but she’s got the legs and/or non-veins for it, so we give her a pass, even if the outside air temperature won’t reach 60 today.
We smile at each other, a quick, Minnesota-style acknowledgement meaning “I recognize your right to exist” and “I mean you no harm”.
The doors open, and she disembarks on the 46th floor.
And the doors close, and I, older and wiser, ride another two floors and cleverly get off on the floor with carpeting I recognize.
Sort It Out
4 hours ago