Do you hate elevators?
If I’m in an elevator and someone is approaching, one of my fingers is closing the door as my face perfects that look: the concerned-I’m-trying-to-hold-the-elevator-sorry-you-missed-it-look.
It’s a little cliché but it worsens.
For context, we live on the 40th floor of a Miami condo.
Lately, if the elevator is crowded, I jump out. For example, while ascending, 24, 25, 26, I freak, press 27, wiggle through the crowd, exit, and wait for the next one.
Sigh ~~
Sometimes I have my bicycle, or the dog, and some older, conservative, get-off-my-lawn condo commander shoots me a look of disapproval for not taking the service elevator, which is always broken. I suck my teeth and again, while descending, 34, 33, 32 — I press 31 and exit at the next stop with a snarl. My social skills are deteriorating to a level beneath Larry David’s. I’m meaner.
When trapped in this pit of despair and we’re stopping to pick up more souls, I’m sighing, rolling my eyes, looking at my watch. Criticize me.
#firstworldproblems #whitepeopleproblems
I understand the counterpoint — move to the ground if you don’t like it.
But I like my apartment: w-a-h-h-h-h.
It’s a legitimate issue, macrophobia, fear of waiting.
Compounded by claustrophobia (fear of closed spaces) and agoraphobia (fear of panicking). ABC news published a piece about handling your fear of elevators.
But I’m not afraid of elevators. It’s more the people in them. The faux greetings and salutations. The awkward moment before the door opens when you’re just standing there. The fact people enter before you exit. There’s absolutely nothing worse than…
— this devolving of Western Civilization.
Sigh ~~
Until some beam-me-up-Scotty-technology arrives, anyone know a good shrink?
