Part of my job is going to a Agency and dropping off my bills to the ninth floor. I ride the beautifully mirrored elevator up, avoiding eye contact with the stranger in the reflection. I'm still wary of looking at myself in mirrors because I hardly recognize myself despite how long I've lived at this weight. I still view myself at the spirited young girl with barely any weight on her, and able to run without becoming tired.
After sitting in traffic for a half an hour, when normally it would take me 10 minutes, I arrived at the Agency with my bills. I entered the elevator, and pressed the nine button. I made it between the fourth floor and the fifth floor before the buzz of the fire alarm came screeching alerting me that this was not a test and that I would be dropped at the next floor and made to leave the building immediately. Thankfully it did stop at the fifth floor, and I joined the queue waiting to exit the building.
Outside there was a fire truck blocking my car so I couldn't even leave and come back. I hid myself under a shady tree, until I was told to move to the other side of the street. As I baked in the sun like a potato, finally they came down and gave us the all clear that we would be allowed to enter the building but the elevator was broken.
I went through the seven stages of grief again. Only this time, I felt better because I wasn't alone in my journey. There were plenty of other people to share in my pain. Plenty of other people to sweat like we're in a bad Richard Simmons work out tape with me. Then the overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia set in. Plenty of people. Too many people. I tend to be cripplingly claustrophobic, added with a healthy dose of hypochondria, and paranoia of all the ways that this could go wrong.
I started my voyage to the ninth floor behind the tiniest woman in the world. By the third floor I was ready to drop. I was hot, I was sweaty, and my thighs were burning. I pressed on for as long as I could, and by the seventh floor I was waving people on past me. I was dry heaving because of the exercise, the stench of body odor mixed with the suffocating heat. A few people laughed, and none stopped to make sure I was okay. Which I was glad about because I was on the verge of tears, and the last I wanted was to be coddled.
I finally made it to the ninth floor and I was pretty sure that this was the end. That I had walked my way to Heaven, and I'd soon be at the pearly gates. I half expected to see all the animals and people I've ever loved welcoming me home. All I saw the was the heavy breathing receptionist greeting me with the same tiny nod I gave her. I handed over my bills and headed on my way. Going down is always easier than going up.
I made it back to my office where the elevator is still broken. I waddled my way up to the third floor and honestly felt like I was never going to walk again. I collapsed on my chair and vowed to myself that I would lose all this weight and I would one day conquer those stairs.
My thighs are on fire, and I have a headache from my slow crawl up 12 flights in total, but I feel energized. Tonight I am going to a cookout at a friend's house, and then walking to the beach to watch fireworks. It's about 3 miles, and I'm a slow moving vessel but I will make it just fine. It's a lot easier to do this things now that I'm 13.5lbs down, and not hindered by grease and sugar coursing through my body.
I'm thinking of making myself shirt that says "I felt the burn and I survived". It's tiny workouts like this that make me feel better and happier that I am working towards a healthier lifestyle.
No comments:
Post a Comment