I once nearly lost a hand in an elevator door. True story. A group of coworkers and I were staying in an elegant older hotel in San Antonio. We’d just checked in and were waiting for a group to exit the elevator so we could enter. As the last person left the lift, the doors began to close, I waited a beat before sticking my right hand out to keep them open, then Bang! The doors snapped shut, just missing my outstretched fingers.
For the rest of my stay I took the stairs. I never try to catch and hold the elevator doors anywhere, having learned my lesson. Half an inch and two seconds were all that prevented my nickname from being Lefty instead of Nana.
Once on a solo motorcycle trip from my home in Mahomet, Illinois, to my son’s home in Dallas, Texas, I stopped for the night in Fayetteville, Arkansas. I’d been on the road all day under the hot summer sun and was ready for a shower.
I checked into the hotel and unloaded the gear from my saddlebags. I’d packed light and was able to carry everything into the hotel in one trip. I entered the empty elevator and fully relaxed for the first time that day. This was my first major solo ride, and I’d been on high alert for many miles.
As soon as I relaxed, a poof of gas was forcefully passed from my backside. Yes, I cut the cheese. It was totally unintentional, but that didn’t keep it from smelling to high heaven.
“Thank goodness,” I thought. “I’m going up and the elevator is empty.”
Except that a well put together woman stopped the elevator on the second floor and rode up with me to the third. I was torn between apologizing for the smell and trying to mime blaming it on the previous occupants. Instead I just suffered in silence until the doors opened and I could escape. I think I heard her gasp for air as she went in the opposite direction. Probably scarred her for life.
Now, Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler and Joe Perry wrote the song “Love in an Elevator.” I’m thinking of writing one called “Lefty Farts in an Elevator.“ It should be a hit, don’t you think?
Would negotiating with arachnids be preferable to appealing to a mollusk’s better nature?
Why, you might ask, am I entertaining such thoughts?
I just finished Adrian Tchaikovsky’s, Children of Ruin, the sequel to his groundbreaking novel, Children of Time, that’s why.
Good sci-fi should force readers to contemplate the imponderables, to think beyond previously constructed boundaries, and Tchaikovsky has given me more to contemplate than my little brain can handle right now. My mind is blown, and that’s a good thing.
Today I took over 14,000 steps at Disney Hollywood Studios. When I walked to catch the bus to return to the Pop Century Resort I could easily imagine my ankles snapping into jagged, ragged, splintered pieces at which point I would simply drag myself by my forearms to the bus stop.
No one would give me a second glance as I pulled my bloody stumps onto the vehicle unless of course I accidentally crossed the yellow line at whch point I would be gently reprimanded.
I rode Star Tours not once, not twice, but three times, and even though I was never named as the rebel spy I personally know two people who were.
I survived two rounds on the Rock ‘n’ Roller Coaster and even managed to look like I was having fun on the second try. The Tower of Terror didn’t claim my life this year; although, it was a close call. What a great, terrifying ride!
I discovered the joys of Toy Story Mania and would gladly ride it non-stop if the lines weren’t so long.
Indiana Jones thrilled me with daring escapades in his stunt show spectacular, and I was seated close enough to feel the heat from the explosions.
Tomorrow I must return to Studly Doright and Doright Manor. My heart is ready. My feet are begging for it, but dang, I’ll miss Disneyworld, CB, Lord Jeff, and kids. What a great time. Now I’m having a beer. Or two.