The other night- after we had taped our show and I had worked for 12 hours- I got into the elevator to go to my car, but realized I didn't have my ID badge to scan. Without it, the elevator wouldn't let me access the level my car was parked on. There was another woman in the elevator. She would not swipe her badge for me. This is my open letter to her:
Dear Lady in the Elevator,
You almost had me at first, when you pretended you couldn't hear me- me, the only other person in a small elevator with you- asking if you would please swipe your badge for me. And for a second, after you cocked your head in surprise that I was talking to you- you, the only other person in a small elevator- I could have sworn you said that you didn't have a badge either, which is so weird since you were able to light up the button for another restricted floor. But I think I got your point pretty clearly when you threw your arms in the air, ran furiously out of the elevator, and yelled that I had to go to the lobby for help. Point taken. You and your shoulder bag are really super rule-sticklers for elevator and parking level access in corporate America. And why wouldn't you be? I mean, if you loosened the reins on that then what next? Passing out your PIN and copies of your Social Security card? Leaving the window to your child's bedroom open at night and cutting your own phone lines? A slippery slope indeed.
But ya know what, Lady in the Elevator? I'm not mad. I totally get where you're coming from, because after I waited for the elevator to go all the way down and then back up again (as I've mentioned, they really are shockingly slow) to take me into the lobby where I then had to walk to the security desk and bother a security guard as he slept in front of six blaring televisions, I got to thinking. I got to thinking about all the treasures that you were protecting on Parking Level 3 by refusing to let me down there without my credentials. There are cement columns I could have really thrown stuff at pretty hard; there are florescent lights that I could look at, or even break with my Starbucks travel mug if I were able to hurl it ten feet in the air; and there are up to several other vehicles- none of which I had the keys to- that I probably would have broken into just for ducks rather than getting into my own car which had Party in the USA cued up and ready for the drive home. Just because that's what I'm into. So I guess it just hurt to really be seen as I am, and that's really about me, Lady in the Elevator, not you.
Until we meet again and I hit Door Close but you make it in the elevator anyway and I pretend I didn't mean to/don't know who you are,
K
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