Confessions of An Elevator Rider? Maybe?

Back in September of 2010, I wrote a small article that involved the elevator where I work. You can catch that here: Can You Please Move Your Crotch?

Over the months since that happened there have been other occurrences involving elevators that have made me ponder writing the book on etiquette and elevators. I’ve yet to do that, but I’m seriously considering it now.

Before I get to the gist of this, let me explain one concept that seems to have fallen off the face of the earth. If someone is on the elevator when the doors open, get out the way and let them get off before you try to get on. Don’t just stand there, but physically move out the way. Recently I had a run in with one particular individual in the building I work in. On the day in question, on three separate occasions I was coming off the elevator, this gentleman (and I use this term very loosely here) tried to get on. Hmm… dilemma. The first two times I held my ground until he moved. The third time, I had a box in my hand and pushed by him. The gentleman gave me a dirty look.

“You know,” I said, “if you would just let people get off before you tried to get on, you wouldn’t get run over by someone with a big box in their hands.”

Maybe I was a little rude. Fine… I was a LOT rude, but come on… three times in one day?

Really, it’s easier for all involved if the folks on the elevator are allowed to get off before others try to get on. It frees up space on the elevator as well. Makes sense to me.

What brings me here today, though, is something else all together. Generally, the men are the ones violating the accepted elevator etiquette. However, today, a female individual kind of stunned me. This is a little lady in her mid to late sixties. When I say little, I mean little–all of under the five foot margin for riding certain roller coasters. I’m not going to give the lady’s name, simply because I know her and so do others in my building (not that they are actually reading this, but you never know).

I get on the elevator and she is already on it.

“Going down?” she asks.

“I hope so,” I respond.

The doors close and she starts. “I’m off today and have an endoscopy in the morning and I’ll be back on Friday.”

That’s not so bad. It was a little more information than I needed, but all and all, okay conversation for an elevator, even in mixed company. Then she proceeds.

“At least I don’t get my boobs squashed this time.”

Okay, stop. Just stop. This is not appropriate conversation for more than one reason: the first of these is, what boobs? Yes, that’s wrong. I know. But, honestly, we’re talking a washboard here. And second, I’m a visual person and the image that appeared in my mind would make even a porn star flaccid. It’s just… it’s just… it’s just wrong.

No, I do not want to know these things. I didn’t asks, ‘hey what yah doin’ on your day off?’

If I would have, then it would have been okay for her to say, ‘not gettin’ my boobs squashed.’

I think I’m a weird conversation magnet. All the weird stuff comes out around me. It doesn’t matter what is going on, I get stuck with the weird conversation. I think I need to scowl at people more often.

Ladies, I know there are a good many of you out there with boobs. Us men rejoice over that fact. Boobs can make the world go round. It’s true–look at them. Round, just like the world. However, don’t tell us about them getting or not getting squashed unless we asks. Okay?

I know. I know. Who’s going to asks about whether or not your boobs get squashed? I don’t know who will, but I can tell you who won’t: ME. And, one more thing: The only time a man cares about boobies getting squashed is if his hands have something to do with the squashing. Just speaking the truth folks.

I think I’m going to title my book, Confessions of An Elevator Rider. Maybe I can get someone to pay me to ride the elevator and get the goods on folks. Something to ponder…

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