Before I moved in with Marisa I lived in small apartment buildings for most of my life (outside of college, where I lived in a house for 2 years, the only time I lived in a house for my entire life). All of my previous apartments have been walk ups, but when you live on the 20th floor in an unintended retirement community the elevator is the way to go.
Elevators are odd spaces. You’re in a metal box for a few minutes with people who are your neighbors… so some people feel the need for small talk. I am not one of those people. If I’m standing in the elevator without Marisa I just stare at the floor indicator for the entire ride, in hopes that none of my fellow elevator takers engage me in inane small talk. Here are two tales from the elevators:
- I get into the elevator with an elderly couple. I press the ’20’ button, and I notice that they are going to the 28th floor (for some reason I get odd satisfaction when I’m going to a higher floor than my fellow elevator patrons. These old folks bested me this time). I stare at the floor indicator as the elderly couple, who seem to be hard of hearing, have a fairly loud conversation. Their conversation dies down as we approach the 20th floor. As soon as I step off the elevator, and am out of the elderly folks’ sight, I hear the wife say, ‘That guy was pretty big, huh? What do you think he weighs? 250?’ Since that is at least 30 pounds less than what I actually weigh, I’m flattered.
- As detailed previously on Blankbaby, I really like Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper. Sadly, it is a scarce resource in Philadelphia, so whenever I can get my hands on it I buy lots of the stuff. Marisa tracked some down at the Super Fresh on Columbus Boulevard, and bought 6 cases of it for me. I then managed to talk Marisa into taking me to Super Fresh so I could buy 3 more cases. We came home and toted 5 cases of the stuff into the elevator. A very slender woman entered the elevator and looked at all the soda. Just by looking at her I could tell she was one of those people who freely, and willingly, gives her opinion to anyone within earshot. I’m sure she loves riding in elevators just so she can pontificate to a captive audience. She remarked about all our soda, and Marisa said, ‘Oh, this is all for him!’ and pointed at me. This was the invitation to comment that the slender lady was waiting for and she pounced. It would seem that diet soda causes cancer, and I shouldn’t drink it. On and on she went. Now, I know I drink more diet soda than I should but I don’t drink alcohol, I’ve never smoked in my life, and I have never done any kind of drugs in my life (other than those a doctor prescribed to me) so I think I am allowed to drink all the frickin’ diet soda I want (plus the other option is guzzling lots and lots of regular soda, and we all know that means I’ll be back at 383 pounds in no time). Being the polite person that I am I simply responded by saying, “Well, everything causes cancer these days, so…” The woman didn’t like that answer, and I’m sure I would have heard more about the evils of diet soda if only we hadn’t arrived at our floor.
I think I might start taking the stairs.