How cynicism and elevators ruined my Jedi-ish aspirations

Admit it — when you walk through automatic doors, you feel like a Jedi too...

There's just something thrilling about doors that swing open on their own, moved (no doubt) by the power of the Force. Facebook's Pieces of Flair agree:

Even though I enjoy feeling like  Jedi, I still can't contain my natural cynicism when it comes to anything mechanical. Too many of my cars have quite running in the middle of intersections for me to trust things with motors and gears. That's why — as someone once asked me — when I walk up to an automatic door, I always kick my foot out to alert it of my presence. I call it the "door dance." 

(I don't really call it that. I just made that up.)

BUT, if I did have a name for my automatic door process — which means that I walk up to a door, poke my foot out, and wave it around — it would be called a "door dance."

Seriously, there's nothing worse than being ignored by automatic doors. It tends to happen to me a lot, either because I'm easy to ignore, or because technology hates me. For example, a couple of weeks ago I went to a Michael's for some craft supplies. Like every other shopper, I walked up to the large automatic door and waited for it to open.

Wait...wait...wait...

The door didn't open. It didn't even acknowledge my presence. It was probably because I hadn't done the door dance.

My first thought was that I had somehow missed a holiday, and that Michael's was closed. However, upon peering through the window (and no doubt looking like an idiot while I did so) I could see people shopping inside. That left me to draw the cold, depressing conclusion that the automatic door was ignoring me. (Or that I wasn't a Jedi). I had to walk away from the door and then walk back up to it again, this time pretending to be "big," so the door would notice me. Luckily, thinking "big" worked. 

More than once, though, pretending to be a Jedi or thinking 'big" has failed, which usually leads to awkward or embarrassing situations. 

Today, for instance, I went to work just like I do most days. The elevators in my office building are super secure — moving through the building is like trying to break into Fort Knox. You need a card key to access most floors from the elevator, and you even need a card key to get out of a stairwell. About the only thing you don't need a key card for is the bathroom.

Anyway, today, like normal, I swiped my card key in the elevator and pushed the button for my floor. The button lit up, just like it was supposed to, and the elevator started to move upward. To my surprise, though, the elevator stopped on the first floor. It didn't just stop, though — it went up a little, and then down a little, and then it settled in place with a tired shudder.

"That's weird," I thought.

I was working the night shift, so there were few people around to stop the elevator on the five floors between my desk and the parking garage. But the possibility of someone needing an elevator ride wasn't unheard of, even for a night shift, so I thought nothing of it.

Until the doors refused to open.

Once I was positive the doors weren't going to open for anyone, I assumed the elevator hadn't realized I was in it. So I swiped my key card again and pushed the "5" button. It lit up, just like it was supposed to, and then the elevator began to move upward.

"Problem solved," I thought. "It was just a fluke."

Then the elevator screeched to a stop again, this time on the fourth floor. The doors opened with a cheerful "ping," and some random guy climbed on. Despite the fact that the "5" button was still lit up, the electronic display in the elevator changed from a green "up" arrow to a red "down" arrow. It was as though the elevator was taunting me — Hahaha! I don't have to listen to you! How long will you ride up and down before you realize that I will NEVER take you to the fifth floor?

Now, I've been patient with elevators in the past, but I wasn't taking any guff from this one. Instead, I got out of the elevator and took the stairs the rest of the way up,

After cars, elevators are my biggest nemesis when it comes to mechanical things. I habitually get stuck in them, and they habitually ignore me. Although the elevator (like the Jedi door at Michael's) had just been ignoring me today, I once got really, truly stuck in an elevator in the Capitol Building in Washington, D.C.

What? If you're going to get stuck in an elevator, you might as well do it right...

In 2009 I was working as an intern for a newspaper in D.C. The Capitol Hill complex is more than a mite confusing — it consists of six office buildings for the House and the Senate, plus the Capitol Building in the center. A labyrinth of underground tunnels and subways connects the entire thing together, so our elected officials can walk from meeting to meeting without bumping shoulders (or even seeing) the proletarian unwashed masses of their constituents.

As a new intern, I really needed a map to get from one point to another. Since I'm waaaay too prideful to use maps or ask for directions, though, I just made a point of taking the same path to and from each building. Any deviations to my routine, and I would be lost in the bowels of the Capitol Building. 

Now, my memory of the incident may be a little skewed (trauma can do that) but if I remember correctly, the President was really to blame for what happened next. I'm pretty sure that he decided to visit the House or Senate that day, which meant his Secret Service dudes blocked my path and directed me to find another way to get home. 

I vaguely remember sighing really, really dramatically as I rolled my eyes at them. This probably convinced them that I was a jerk reporter, but really, I was just worried about finding my way outside. The Capitol Building has dozens of doors, but only one or two that you can actually use. Security guards, metal detectors, blocked-off stairs, etc. make the place more of a maze than it already is.

Anyway, since I had no other choice, I decided to go to the lower level of the Capitol Building. The Capitol has five levels, and I habitually traversed the lowest level and sometimes the first and second. This time, though, I got off an elevator on some level I had never seen before. The walls were all pink and the hallway was tiny, but I figured if I walked straight I would eventually find a way out. 

So I walked...and walked...and walked...

(Like a pioneer!)

Eventually I decided I had walked far enough and I found an elevator. It was the most beautiful elevator I had ever seen — dark wood paneling, bright lights, marble floors — and I climbed on board. It was only after the doors closed that I realized I had just climbed onto the Titanic of elevators: my trip was doomed from the start.

Since I didn't want to go down, I pushed the button for the first floor. The elevator started moving up — right past the first floor. It pulled to a stop on the second floor. 

"That's okay," I thought. "I can just walk down the stairs."

But — just like the elevator at work today — the doors didn't open. Not sure of what to do, I pushed the button for the first floor again. It didn't even light up. Then I tried the button for the basement. Still nothing. I read the instructions on what to do if the elevator got stuck — push and hold the "open doors" button. That didn't work either. 

It took a while, but I eventually figured out I had gotten into the special elevator reserved only for Senators and normally run by bellhops with special card keys. Since I wasn't a Senator or a bellhop, and I didn't possess a special card key, I figured I would be stuck there until the next morning, which was both troubling and embarassing. 

Luckily, as a last-ditch effort to escape, I pushed the button for the third floor, and the elevator obeyed. This time (to my relief) the doors opened. I jumped out immediately, surprising a security guard. Since I couldn't just let him wonder about my miraculous appearance, I explained the whole story to him. He laughed at me, and then pointed me in the right direction.

That beautiful Senate elevator cemented my distrust of mechanical things. And, of course, I saw this today and that totally didn't help:

It's an escalator malfunction in D.C. where the brakes failed and threw everyone in a pile. If most of the subway escalators hadn't been broken while I lived in D.C., I'm sure this would have happened on my way to work or something. Escalators are scary. Seriously, who hasn't hasn't dreamed of an escalator suddenly malfunctioning and sucking you in by your feet? 

I've accepted the fact that most mechanical things will either malfunction or ignore me. However, I have yet to understand why — when it happens — it still makes me feel so insignificant...

The seven most dangerous words

According to the movie "Spy Kids," the most dangerous words a person can utter are "I do."

(That's right — "Spy Kids." I enjoy mature entertainment.)

Anyway, the point is, saying "I do" can result in a lot of twists and turns in your life that you might not expect. I'm no expert on this, seeing as how I'm not married and all, but I would respectfully disagree with this pinnacle of American cinema. See, I believe the most dangerous words are these:

"I was going to be on time."

These words are dangerous because they always — ALWAYS — lead to an inevitable "But..." which naturally leads into a long, depressing story.

So, in keeping with that kernel of truth...

Once upon a time on a Sunday in December, I was getting ready for church. I was very excited because... I was going to be on time!

As I left my bedroom I had that tickling feeling in the back of my mind, warning me that I was forgetting something important. But since I had my scriptures and my iPod, I figured I had everything I needed. What else could there be? 

So, I happily trooped through the front door and outside to my car. As soon as I went to unlock the car, though, it hit me. That unimportant thing that I had forgotten? Yep, my keys. Now, I know you're thinking, "Just go back inside and get them; no biggie," but it was a biggie. See, the door on my house locked as soon as I closed it, so I knew I was in trouble.

Still optimistic, I ran back to my front door, hoping that it hadn't latched. 

It had. 

Next, I ran around to the back of the house, hoping that a random roommate had left it unlocked. 

They hadn't.

So there I was, locked out of my house with my scriptures and an iPod, in December, and without a coat. Genius. 

Feeling like an idiot, I rang the doorbell. Two of my roommates were home, so I figured I would just ring the doorbell until one of them rolled out of bed and came to open the door. But no matter how many times I rang the doorbell, nobody inside of the house stirred. One of my roommates was hopped up on cold medicine, and the other was apparently the world's deepest sleeper. Since I had locked my cell phone inside, I couldn't even call them. My happy "I'm-going-to-be-on-time" Sunday had suddenly taken a turn for the worse.

Now, I'm never one to be defeated by locked doors. I've unlocked doors with bobby pins, and barrettes, and even spoons. My last roommate habitually locked me out of the bathroom. (Which is a traumatizing experience, by the way.) I also have yet to meet a house that I can't break into. Climbing onto the roof in a dress and breaking into my brother's room so I could get my toe shoes for Miss Utah? No biggie. Hopping through my apartment window without  even bumping the goldfish bowl right inside of it? Easy. With years of experience under my belt, I figured I would be fine.

I figured wrong. 

Since knocking and ringing the doorbell seemed to be getting me nowhere, I ran around the house, peering through the windows and trying to find one that was unlocked. Within just a few minutes I surmised that we five girls kept our house safely secured against people interested in breaking and entering. (In this case, that meant people like me.) But then, suddenly, I spotted my salvation — an open window! I ran over to it and pushed, only to find that our 1970s crank-me-open-like-an-old-car-window windows were impossible to open farther than a couple of inches. No matter how hard I pushed, the window wouldn't budge. That three-inch gap taunted me, laughing at my desperation.

"No three-inch gap will defeat me!" I vowed. 

Having made the promise, the next step was to make it a reality. So, I decided to venture to the back of the house. It was a place I had never encountered before. I had only lived there for a month, and who seriously walks around the back of their house for no reason? Being locked out and cold proved to be the motivation I needed, so I began to explore.

The first thing I found was a door. My mind said, "Ah-ha! A door!" And the door responded with, "Haha. Locked." 

The next thing I found was a cement staircase leading down. My mind said, "What the?!" and the stairs said, "You should walk down me...granted, it's creepy and dark and looks like a serial killer could be lurking at the bottom, but...come on down..."

Naturally, I went down.

When I came to the bottom of the stairs, I found two doors. The one on the right was thick and metal, and the one on the left was rickety and falling apart, with a gaping black window leading into a room I had never seen before. Feeling stupid, I knocked on the door to the right. There was no answer. Turning to the door on the left, I saw the orange glow of a space heater and my mind instantly began inventing stories like this:

"Scary basement room + space heater = homeless person living in my basement! There's a homeless person living in my basement!"

Desperation can cause a person to do silly things, so even though I was convinced I would find a hobo cuddled up in this random room under my house, I opened the door and went in. 

To my utter relief, there were no drifters, transients, or homeless people. There was just a random space heater (turned on) in a creepy, random little room.  None of it made sense, but I had been locked outside for a while, so it didn't matter. Besides, that room held my salvation. I used the bizarre space heater to warm up (December and no coat = not smart) and then I found it — a treasure...the best thing I had ever seen: a little, tiny piece of metal. 

I don't really know what it was — a pruning blade? A saw? It was one of those things they give away for free in hardware stores, with jagged teeth on one side, and with someone's logo printed on the main body. Descriptive, I know, but it's the best I can do...

Even thought it's now a couple of months later, I still don't know the official name of that tool, but I do know that it saved the day. I used the saw to unscrew a screen on a door, then I pried the window open, stuck my hand in, and unlocked the door. I left the house at 8:50 a.m. (remember — I was going to be on time!) and walked back into my room at 10:44, having never actually left the premises. Needless to say, I was NOT on time.

The moral of this story is to be cautious when using the words: "I was going to be on time." I distinctly remember thinking those seven words as I left my bedroom, and found myself regretting that hubris only a few seconds later. From now on, I'm sticking with, "I'm going to be late." It just seems like the safer option...

 During the whole process of trying to pick locks with bobby pins and creeping around my own house, I was incredibly self-conscious about the fact that I had locked myself out. I wanted my roommates to wake up and open the door, but at the same time, I really, really didn't want them to know that I was an idiot. That's partially why I didn't knock on any windows or ring the doorbell more than a few times. Looking back, I probably made a bad choice. Hindsight is a great thing...

And so are keys.

(And just in case you're curious - the random space heater was apparently placed there by my landlord to keep the pipes from freezing. Ghetto.)

(And just in case you're even more curious - this whole "Start a blog to beat writer's block" thing seems to be working. In this long break between posts, I've finished writing and editing a book. Success.)