Take the Stairs

In the last week, I've taken the elevator from the tenth to eighteenth floors in my building a lot because I'm lazy and can't be bothered to walk the seven floors to my room (there is no thirteenth floor). Walking those flights of stairs would require physical exertion of which I will have none.

I don't care if this is the way to ice cream mountain...  

My physical ineptitude, though, is not the reason for this post.

Three times during the past week, as I entered the elevator, people disembarked. They sailed past me with little regard, usually absorbed in their ipods or pretending to text as to avoid acknowledging my existence.

Mashing buttons makes me seem popular.

They would  skirt by me, usually bestowing upon me a rather surprised look because "what a coincidence, someone is getting on while I'm getting off."  I can't really fault them for this either because there have been many times when I've been so lost in thought as I was exiting and elevator that I've nearly had a fear-aneurysm  upon seeing a person as the doors slid open.

It's after I get onto the elevator that I perceive their mistake. I go to hit my floor and I see that another button already alight, usually the twelfth or fourteenth floor for some reason. There are two explanations for this phenomenon: either the people who got off are just jerks who get their kicks by wasting fifteen seconds of my time, or, more likely, they were so lost in themselves that they  just assumed that this was their floor, never checking to make sure. I can only imagine their dismay when they try in vain to shove their keys into someone else's door only to look up and notice it's not their name on the cutesy door tags.

"How peculiar, my name is neither Joe nor Jane Resident."

It's not that I'm a stranger to this experience. Once, during my freshman year in college, I tried for five straight minutes to try to get into the room that was directly below mine. I was completely perplexed as to why my keys weren't working until the young man who lived in the room opened the door and asked what the hell I was doing. I stared at him awkwardly for a moment, mouth agape, then walked away. Luckily, he decided not to pursue the matter any further.

Elevators in general are sources of discontentment for the masses, causing more awkward situations per square foot than any other place on Earth. Whether it be getting off at the wrong floor, moving to the doors before they open, or being forced into a conversation with someone for four floors (honestly, just pretend I'm not even there), it's hard not to hold a little bit of a grudge against elevators for being the genesis of so many uncomfortable situations. Maybe they get some sick pleasure out of making people squirm. Maybe they think it's funny when people try to stretch their response to "How's the weather?" for seven floors.

The face of evil?

Or maybe (and most likely) people are just awkward, and having someone's elbow digging into your appendix on a crowded elevator just makes it worse.