I’m just like you. But you’re named after a government landmark and a former President. Yes my friend, but I’m still like you. I am part of a monotheistic religious establishment. I escaped persecution and/or enslavement in Egypt, Britain, Germany, Russia, and Palestine – not in that particular order, of course. One of my ancestors was a slave girl named Sally Hemings. Why am I sharing this information with you? The answer is simple: to prove that I am a red blooded American who enjoys Freedom Fries, escalators, and the invisible hand (I am aware that Adam Smith was Scottish).
There is one thing I do not like, but allow me to set the stage. I live on the tenth floor of an elevator building in Manhattan. I work on the ninth floor of an elevator building in Manhattan. Why should you care? Perhaps you ride elevators, perhaps you have seen elevators, perhaps you have a dumbwaiter in your mansion; I really can’t pinpoint your specific interest because I don’t actually know you.
I will now introduce the concept of Lent. This is a Christian holiday where an individual gives up a certain item for forty days and forty nights. For further reference, I recommend the film starring heart-throb Josh Hartnett. Some religious sects allow cheating on Sundays; others require that an individual not eat meat on Fridays. It doesn’t really matter. In fact, all monotheistic religions have some “holiday” where you have to give up something. You should all relate; except for atheists and agnostics, but you hell-mongrels can just humor me.
I have proved my American heritage, described the existence of elevators, and explained the religious holiday known as Lent. You may be asking yourself, “What do they all have in common, Langley Delano Roosevelt.” I’m a nice guy, so I’ll tell you: obesity. In fact, if you are American, you’ll know that over fifty percent of our brethren are overweight . There are many different reasons for obesity; the reasons alone could fill a doctoral thesis. To understand one particular reason, close your eyes and revisit the stage that I have set (elevators in Manhattan). Open your eyes so that you can continue reading.
I can’t tell you how many times I have taken the elevator down from floor ten only to stop on the second floor so that an overweight, middle aged, gender neutral, culturally ambiguous person can ride twelve feet down. I’m not a physicist so I don’t have the ability to calculate the calorie burning potential of walking, but I bet it’s high. For this reason, I implore you, nay, I beg you: take the fucking stairs.
To set an example, I, LDR, will personally give up elevators for Lent. For those of you who do not observe or share my enthusiasm, I will provide three cardinal rules for elevator use.
1) Only take the elevator if you are going up or down three or more flights of stairs. Is it that hard to walk? Maybe you’ll even burn off that donut around your waist. Every time you ride less than three stories, I want to stab you with the hour hand of the clock.
2) Allow people to exit the elevator before you enter. You’re not going anywhere until I get off. Cool your jets and be polite. You never know when someone will be holding a lance, waiting for you to walk into it. That someone will be me. Gotcha’ bitch.
3) At least pretend to hold the door. If someone is running down the hall to catch the elevator, at least pretend to press the “door open” button. I’m not looking for an Oscar worthy performance but if you really want to get fancy, you can press the “door close” button instead and give a confused look as the cold steel shuts in their face.