But it’s impossible to be clearheaded and methodical when your upstairs neighbor is a wellspring of noise and mental distress and sleep deprivation. I was flipping desperate to move, okay? I didn’t waste time thinking. And, as luck would have it, I wound up here, where I’m perfectly content.
See, I’m eleven lovely stories above the everyday world, with only the sky for a neighbor. There’s nothing to flee, no hubbub to escape, and no reason to search for respite elsewhere. I’ve lost my incentive to go anywhere. Can you blame me? It’s December. No one in their right mind wants to be outside, where it’s cold and windy and bleak. I’d rather sit on my keister and watch movies.
And there’s the catch. Inertia isn’t a healthy lifestyle or even much of a life, really. I’d be a flabby weirdo in no time. Heh, well, nuts to that. I plan to maintain my girlish figure and Wonder Woman delusion forever, so I’ve adopted a new fitness policy called: Taking the Stairs. I don’t mean a few flights, either, I mean all eleven floors.
Yesterday was the maiden voyage and I started with enthusiastic resolve, marching up floor after floor after floor. By the time I reached five I started to sputter, at seven I flagged, at ten I was just hauling myself up by the railing. I made it, though, and burst into the hall on wobbly knees. I wanted to yodel or do the Tarzan yell, something, but I’d no breath left in my lungs.
I wish I could say it was a good feeling, but it wasn’t. I was too dizzy and oxygen deprived to enjoy my little accomplishment. I just leaned on the wall and lurched onwards, willing myself home. Where I promptly planted my ass and watched a movie while my heart rate return to normal.
C’mon, I’m not crazy. I’ll still use the elevator as my main form of transportation. Stairs are for special occasions, such as aerobic exercise and escaping fire. Slinky races, that stuff. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Doubtfire is calling.
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