1:15 p.m.

As we pile into the elevator, bags in tow, I see a sign about hotel renovations on the outside wall and disregard it entirely. It’s more like a lengthy memo than a sign. I regret my decision to bypass it almost immediately. The doors close as an ominous feeling rushes over me.

1:15 p.m.

None of the buttons work. Nothing lights up on the keypad to indicate where we’re going. We have no idea on which of the 45 floors we’ll end up. Or if we’ll plummet to the bottom. 

1:16 p.m. 

Three of the other passengers (all friends) are calm and collected. They’re not at all worried. The fourth begins to panic—calling to anyone who might hear, “We’re down here! Stuck in the elevator! Help up!”

1:16 p.m.

I finish the last of my bottled water and feel a pang of disappointment. I watch the discovery channel all the time. I know that I need water to live. Why did I finish my last ration so quickly? WHY??!!! 

1:16 P.M.

In high school, I read the true crime account of two friends who were lost in the desert. Over time, they both became incredibly weak and one was forced to eat the other in order to survive. I haven’t thought about the book in years. I look over at my friend who is clearly shaken about our current predicament. She seems upset, scared. I think I’ll eat her first.

1:17 p.m.

Dinner’s anxiety is beginning to rub off on me. My palms are sweating. I have to sit down. Sitting only makes things worse. I become acutely aware of how hot it is in the elevator. So hot. How small it is. It’s so small. Does it smell in here? It does. Did I remember to put on deodorant this morning? I did not! 

1:18 p.m.

I call 911. “I am stuck in an elevator. My coordinates are 150 East 34th Street. What are the cross streets? I don’t know. I’m confused. It’s hot in here. Doesn’t your firetruck have a GPS? Why are you asking me this? You patrol the streets for a living. What if I were a German tourist. Well, no. I live in Brooklyn. I still don’t know. Please, stop asking me.”

1:19 p.m.

The Great White Buffalo confesses he had no idea I would buckle, so quickly, under pressure. 

1:20 p.m.

A sign of life. One of the maintenance men hears Dinner’s cries. “Bob, I think we’ve got some people in the test elevator.” A test elevator!? Dinner screams louder. I join in. I am not ashamed. “Why did you guys get into a broken elevator?” I don’t know. we’re so stupid.

1:21 p.m.

More time has passed and still no sign of recue. I’m really scared. I don’t hear any firetrucks or ambulance’s or police sirens, so I have to assume the authorities haven’t arrived yet. I begin to second guess paying my taxes. 

1:22 p.m.

The elevator is moving.

1:22 p.m.

Up and down.

1:22 p.m.

My anxiety-induced perspiration has become apparent to the other, calmer passengers. They laugh at me. I do not find it funny.

1:23 p.m.

Finally, the doors open! Two men stand there, ready to help us out of the elevator. We have to watch our step because we’re in between two floors. I know. Terrifying. Once we’re out, Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Free Bird plays in my head. I have to stop myself from hugging this black guardian angel who rescued me from the dark entrapment of the elevator. I now know how it must feel to be heroically hoisted out of a well you’ve been stuck in for approximately 8 minutes. But I also know what it feels like to not want some sweaty moron to touch me. I respect his space and day-drink until I am drunk enough to ride another elevator. 

Is it just me or is it always the most religious, conservative anti-gay republicans that get caught with their hands in the cookie jar? And by cookie jar, I mean down the pants of a same-sex minor. (I’m looking at you, Rep. Phil Hinkle) 

Age is just a number, or whatever old people say to make themselves feel better. But as that pesky number rises, the perks of getting older increases in direct correlation. So, whatevs, kids don’t pay bills, don’t have to cook for themselves, and have few responsibilities other than finishing their homework—but they can’t drink, can’t have sex with strangers, and they can’t run off to Greece on a whim (not that I’ll ever do that, mom). Yes, I will.

So all in all, getting older isn’t that bad, right? Case in point:

When you get knocked up, you can eat whomevers lunch you want, and then say stuff like, “But the baby was hungry.” Sure, your coworker won’t be happy as he watches you devour the perfectly curated turkey and Swiss sammy he spent 15 minutes making this morning, but no one yells at a lady with a baby bump. Truth.

Once you have kids, you can pretty much fart as much as you want and you’ll always have someone to blame it on. (It’s like having a dog. That talks.) There’s no better excuse for expelling gas in a crowded space than to blame it on your child. They’re none the wiser, and it’ll be years before they start getting embarrassed by stuff like that. Or they’re totally tuned in and traumatized at a young age, in which case they grow up to be introverted, shy teens and never stay out late partying… and then you don’t have to wait up for them. Either way, you win.

Whitney was right. Not about crack, but about the whole “kids are our future” bit. And if your kid grows up to be a doctor (or for your sake, a plastic surgeon), then you’re set for life. Say hello to early retirement. I’m going to read my little fetus Grey’s Anatomy while watching Grey’s Anatomy when they’re still warm in the womb.

Eventually there comes a point in every life when it’s time to slow down. Suddenly, you’re tired all the time. You’ve worked hard (sorta), and now you just want to rest. When the time comes, you won’t catch me snoozing on a La-Z Boy. I’ll be maxed out, catching some Z’s at the dinner table. Why? Because I can. Also, people will think I’m sleeping (and although most of the time I will be comatose) sometimes I’ll fake it. Just to listen in on conversations. Ya’know—to see who’s doing what, fooling around with whose wife, saying boo about the old lady sleeping at the dinner table. It’ll help me decide who to leave out of my last will and testament.

Last, but not least, Hoverrounds. Need I say more?

Oh, Time Warner, Time Warner,

what a flippin’ shame.

All I wanted was HBO on demand,

but your customer service is really lame.

You said you’d be here at 9 a.m.,

and now it’s ten-past-2.

I’ve called a million times,

and talked to Brian, Bill, and Sue.

You pushed back our appointment

and didn’t notify us at all.

Do you think it’s fair that -you- screwed up,

and to find out -we- should call?!

You monopolize the area we live in.

What are a couple of Long Island kids to do?

We Googled for BK’s direct number

to find out everyone complains about you.

So here’s another lamentation

to add to that ever-growing list…

I wouldn’t give you a single cent,

instead we’ve had FiOS install a dish!

The Great White Buffalo and I have taken the proverbial plunge, and done what every sane couple doesn’t do – we’ve moved in together.

We now have in addition to our 405+ days of rent-free history: a kitchen island; a dog; 2 TV’s; a couch and bar currently floating in the furniture-delivery-abyss; 4 pairs of sheets; 6 towels (not nearly enough – cough, cough); a pantry filled with pasta, Orville Redenbacher popcorn, and fabric softener; and a place to call our own.

Readying yourself for the move is nerve-racking to say the least. At first, I thought it would be for me, but it was mostly for GWB, whom I hocked at constantly because we needed to have nightstands for our first night so I wouldn’t have to –GASP– put my water glass on the floor.

As we settled in and realize that –unbeknownst to us myself– I can be a bit of a control freak, I also realize that I am very lucky. Lucky, not only because GWB is a funny, patient, and kindhearted man – who won’t throw me out if I try to explain one more time that we need to do laundry on Washing Wednesday because it just makes sense!– but because my irrational fears are so much stronger, than any real concerns the two of us will ever really have.

Rational Fear of Any Couple #1: We have a week until we get cable. Will we run out of things to talk about?

Counter-Irrational-Fear #1: TIME WARNER (a total monopoly that must be stopped!) IS CRAYCRAY EXPENSIVE. WHAT IF WE FIND OUT, AFTER A FEW WEEKS OF SERVICE, THAT WE CAN NO LONGER AFFORD TO HAVE HBO AS PART OF OUR PACKAGE DEAL, AND THEN IN ORDER TO SAVE MONEY WE’RE FORCED TO EAT AT THE MOST DANGEROUS PLACE IN THE WORLD – CHUCK E. CHEESE’S, WHERE A KID CANNOT BE A KID – THIS WAY WE CAN WATCH UNLIMITED AMOUNT OF THE SOPRANO’S ON DEMAND? AND WHAT IF SAID HBO SERVICE WAS CANCELED DURING THE MONTH ROME RUNS, AND I MISS THE EPISODE WHERE YOU FIRST MEET CLEOPATRA, AND THEN I DIE FROM A MIX OF SADNESS, AND DEPRESSION?

Rational Fear of Any Couple #2: What if we forget to pay a bill on time?

Counter-Irrational-Fear #2: WHAT IF THE LANDLORD REALIZES THAT HATES US BECAUSE WE SMELL LIKE CURRY. THEN HE EVICTS US AND THROWS US OUT ONTO THE STREETS, AND WE HAVE TO GO TO SMALL CLAIMS COURT AND FILE A PETITION IN ORDER TO GET OUR KNOTTING-HILL KITCHEN CART BACK? YOU KNOW, THE ONE WITH THE TWO DRAWERS AND THE SILVER KNOBS, AND THE TOWEL BAR!

Rational Fear #3: What if Oliver doesn’t like being a city dog?

Counter-Irrational-Fear #3: WHAT IF OLIVER HATES APARTMENT LIFE AND RUNS AWAY, LIKE THOSE DOGS FROM HOMEWARD BOUND, AND THEN HE GETS POKED IN THE FACE BY A PORCUPINE? WHAT IF HE DOESN’T HAVE HIS COLLAR ON, AND HE ESCAPES INTO THE HEART OF BED-STUY AND BECOMES A GANG-BANGER BECAUSE–LET’S BE HONEST–HE’S BLACK AND WHITE AND WOULD LOOK ATTRACTIVE IN ANY GANG COLOR, AND FIT INTO ANY ETHNICALLY-MIXED GROUP OF HOOLIGANS?