Stairway to Heaven...

The elevator in my office building has been broken for 5 days, and the only option is to walk up to the third floor. This is not an unusual occurrence for this elevator; it was always going out, but on Friday it was as hot as the tenth ring of Hell. Now, for a person of normal weight it wouldn't be so bad; I am not a normal weight. 

The first day that it went out, I revolted. I went through the seven stages of grief:

I was in shock; it had just been working seven minutes ago. I had ridden down. This is not happening.

I felt guilty; had I caused the elevator to stop working? Was my weight too much for it to handle? I also felt pain, because deep down, I knew I'd soon have to take the trek up the stairs.

I was mad. This piece of crap elevator was always doing this. Why couldn't the landlord of the building stop being such a cheap ass and fix it? I offered money to the custodian of the building if he would give me a piggy back ride up the stairs.(He didn't accept. Maybe I should have offered him more than $4.00.)

I was entering the depression, reflection and loneliness stage. I stood in the lobby in front of the elevator and thought back on all the good times we shared. The multiple trips a day up and down. Where would I ever find a friend as good as this one?

I was starting to adjust to life without the elevator. I knew, I could make it through this somehow. My grief was lessening with each minute that passed.

I was reconstructing my life; I took off my shoes to lessen the pain of this trip.

Finally, I arrived at acceptance. I knew I had to do this, and there was no other choice. Thus began my journey to the third floor.

On the first day, I truly thought I was going to die in the stairwell. I debated on calling a priest to come and read me my last rights and calling my parents to tell them that I love them and where my secret stash of money is hidden.(I am not religious, and I have no secret stash of money, I was delirious from heat and physical exertion.) I finally reached the summit, as this was my Mount Everest, and I felt comatose. I stood on the final step for another minute, and finally I walked into the hallway where I was greeted with hot air and 15 doors until I reached my cool office. If I ever had to walk up those stairs again, I was going to quit my job. 

Then I received the bad news; the elevator would be broken for two weeks. Two weeks of up and down the stairs six times. Two weeks of wondering if this would be my last breath. Two weeks of pure hell.

But then something happened: the days have passed and I have gotten better at climbing the stairs. I'm not huffing and puffing and threatening to blow this house down anymore. I'm not crawling up the stairs, begging for piggy back rides or a chair I can sit on that takes me to the top. No, I am walking up them. I am defeating them. 

It's small victories like this that make me feel proud of myself, and make me want to commit to this lifestyle change. And who knows? Maybe once the elevator is fixed, I'll continue to walk up the stairs. But for now, it's enough to know that I'm able to walk up them and not feel as if I'm going to die.