Elevator

My office is on the top most floor of a one storey building. Yes, it's not that high up. Yet, the elevator; which is slower than rigor mortis; is surprisingly used more frequently than a hot yet cheap hooker. The car park and bathrooms are in the basement, though people use it to go one storey lower as well. I have, for the fun of it, raced it to find that I am thrice as fast in my sneakers and one and a half times as fast in my heels.

So today as I get out of my office to go to the bathroom, after prolonging the need to for very long on account of reading all of your blogs, I curse my luck to see that the chick from the neighbouring office is also heading towards the elevator. Shit, I think, no chicken dance in the elevator to control my bladder. The chicken dance is an intricately concocted dance of marching within the elevator in a circle while lifting my feet high with each step. I hope to God there isnt a camera in the elevator. No there isn't. I looked carefully when I was striking poses in the giant mirror they have in it. Yellow elevator light and Giant mirrors just make you look amazing.

I survive, despite the fact that she stands right in front of the button thinking she's pressed it, but hadn't. I resist socking her face while reaching for it but politely gesture. It was funny though, as we hit the bottom floor, she tried to hop off to the bathroom as gracefully as one can muster a hop! I burst out laughing much to the poor chics discomfort, and she refused to look me in the eye for a whole week. Funny shit, you know?

P.S I iz off to the neighbouring city of Amman tomorrow for a weekend of bliss! I will see you bloggers and bloggerettes Saturday! :-)