Today, I’m hopped up on Skittles, PMS and job stress. Look out, world, here I come!
Heading out to the parking garage at Corporate Behemoth, I was squished in an elevator with approximately 47 other people. Not cool. But then I realized: I ride an elevator a minimum of four times a day. Minimum.
Growing up, there were exactly two elevators in my hometown. One was in the bank (booring!) and the other was in the department store (thrilling!).
When my mom had errands to run, she would bribe me by saying that if I was a good girl, we could ride the elevator when we were done. Of course, I got to push the buttons. This was a thrill beyond all thrills.
I remember the department store as being quite large and cosmopolitan. Of course, I now see that it was tiny. And as an adult, I would be claustrophobic in the elevator all alone. But as a three-year-old toting along an old purse of my mother’s that I had crammed full of poker chips and Old Maid cards? Well, it was uptown nirvana.
If it was a really big outing, we’d head to the hotel restaurant and have cottage cheese. They served it with an ice cream scoop, so it came in a perfect little mound.
I’m not 80 years old. I just grew up in a small town where we only had to dial five numbers instead of seven until I was in high school. I think I was lucky to grow up in that environment, although I always knew I wasn’t meant to stay there. Good thing – my hometown is much different now.
When I was on the elevator today, I felt a jolt of excitement.