I fear the universe may still be talking to me. At work today, some guy had on the same stripey shirt that I did. And it’s not a common stripey pattern, either — I’ve never seen it on anyone else, in fact. I’m pretty sure the universe is definitely trying to tell me something. Something verrrry important. And very probably about my lousy fashion sense. Bitches.
Anyway, in other news, there’s something I’ve been meaning to mention here for a while. It’s about the elevator at my office. There’s something a bit… unnerving about it. It’s reflective. You know, on the inside of the doors. Mirrored. And I don’t like it one damned bit.
Now, I know why it’s reflective — that’s obvious. You use reflective metal on the inside of your elevator when you want to prevent passenger nose-picking, and you can’t afford an elevator operator. Or a camera. Or a fake plastic camera.
(Or a fake plastic operator, for that matter. But who wants Pat Sajak in their elevator at work?
But that’s not important right now. I’m just name-dropping with the Sajak thing. The point is that the presence of mirrored surfaces tend to discourage certain dubious behaviors. Nose-picking is of course the most well-known of these undesirable habits, but there are several others, as well. It’s also nearly impossible to excavate your navel, diddle your privates, or take a whiz while you’re staring at an image of your own dirty, disgusting self.
Yeah, that’s right — almost. You heard me. So I go the extra mile to research what I write, okay? It’s not just ‘peeing in the elevator’; it’s called ‘journalism‘, you hear me?)
Anyway, I understand the reasons, and sure, the mirroryness of the elevator works in that regard. On me, anyway — I’m certainly not gonna stand there, watching myself pick my own nose, while I’m being lifted up to my cubicle. Me picking someone else’s nose, maybe. Some stranger yanking pinky boogies out of my schnozz? Absolutely. I’d probably take pictures of that, maybe even put ’em on my Christmas cards. But my own digit digging in my own Durante? Nah. Not cool.
So, the reflective doors are serving a purpose. That’s fine when I’m in there alone — I’m happy to make funny faces at myself for four floors’ worth of elevating. Of course, it’ll get me fired one day, when I mistime the doors opening, and my boss finds me waggling my tongue and stretching my eyelids over my ears as he’s stepping out for lunch.
(Hey, don’t laugh. My grandma walked in on me making faces in the mirror one day when I was a kid; she damned near swallowed her dentures. Seriously. She started sputtering and gurgling… we had to loosen her girdle three notches to settle her down. She’s a delicate flower, my grammy.)
Anyway, my real beef with those damned elevator doors comes when there are other people in there with me. They make it exceptionally hard to follow the first, most important, cardinal rule of elevator travel: no eye contact.
See, in most elevators, you can simply stare straight ahead, and you’re fine. Even if people are in front of you, all you’re gonna see is the backs of their heads, assuming they’re doing their job, too. But with mirrors ahead, you’re still in danger of making uncomfortable eye contact with the other passengers. There’s no good strategy — you can’t turn and face the back of the ‘vator. There might be people behind you; you could accidentally look at them. And you can’t face the side walls; you’ll look like an idiot, and you might miss your floor. The only acceptable strategy is to face front forward, but the mirrored doors make that a minefield. All those eyes, flitting back and forth, searching through the doors and back into the elevator — it’s just a matter of time before two sets of peepers lock onto each other and make everybody squeamish. Those damned doors have got to go, I tell you!
Anyway, that’s been on my mind for a while. I just thought I should let you in on it. So, you know, when you hear that I got fired for spreading mud on our elevator doors, or duct-taping them together, you’ll know what happened. I mean, I’ll try to be secretive about it, but I’m just about due to get caught doing something in there. I almost got walked in on picking my navel in there last week.
Hey, hey! Journalism, dammit. Journalism! How many times do I have to tell you people? Bitches!Permalink | 9 Comments