Up, Please, Or Is That Too Much To Ask?

I got in the elevator.  I pushed #1.  The doors closed.  I was on my way. Except I wasn't.  Nothing happened.  At first, I didn't realize the elevator wasn't moving.  I'm a bit of a space cadet these days.  But then it occurred to me I was on a ride to nowhere.  My #1 fear in life is to be trapped in an elevator.  No thankie.  No thankie very much. My natural inclination in life is to panic, but I didn't have the energy.  All I could muster was an understated "uh-oh," followed by a low-key, "How do I get the eff out of here?"  I stared at the panel and pressed a pretty green button with arrows, hoping it meant, "Open for the little Jew," as opposed to, "Let's keep her in here a while longer and watch her freak out, that'll be fun."  Like an answered prayer, the elevator doors opened. Score one for the SJG.  I stepped out and pondered my existence.  My meeting was in five minutes.  I still had plenty of time to reach the first floor, even if I had to hire a helicopter to deposit me on the roof so that I could rappel down the building. I was fairly confident I'd get there somehow.  And so, as I stood there and waited for divine intervention, which I like to do every now and then, just to see if it shows up, ta-da! in walked my salvation, my traveling angel, my guide to get me out of this baffling situation.  "The elevator didn't work for me," I said to her. (Private note to self:  See how you personalize things?  A healthy person would say, "The elevator didn't work."  But you, SJG, you cute dollop of neuroses, must add, "for me." Has all that therapy taught us nothing? Don't answer that.)

Hang on, I need a rest

My guide took charge, as I knew she would.  "Let's see what's going on," she said.  I followed her blindly into the elevator.  Just because it didn't work for me, didn't mean it wouldn't work for her.  So in we went, and I let her push #1.  The doors closed.  And nothing happened. "Hmm," she said, like a TV detective.  She pressed "open" and got out.  I followed her.  (Personal note to my father:  Dad, you always told me not to be a sheep, to be a leader.  Baaaaaaaaaaaaa baaaaaaaaaaaa.  Sorry to let you down.)  Then she pressed the button on the other elevator. Bupkis.  Time remaining before meeting: two minutes. (Turns out, my guide had her own meeting that didn't involve me.  How selfish.) Anyway, the prospect of hiring a helicopter?  Looking dim.  My guide cased the surroundings, like a gal on a cop show, and found a secret path. Clearly, this was an important journey we were meant to take together. "I guess we have to take the stairs," she said.  "Oy gevalt," I said.  And off we schlepped, the SJG dragging my tired tuchas up more flights than one, I'll tell you that much, and I've never been good at math.  The high-heeled feet of my kick-ass guide barely touched the steps.  She just floated up, up, up, while I, on the other hand, huffed and puffed.  (One of these gals is not like the other.)  This was the most exercise I've had in weeks.  I was two seconds from hauling out the inhaler when we reached the door to our destination.  Cue heavenly harp music as we stepped into the lobby on the first freaking floor. There sat my devastatingly handsome friend Jim, calm and collected, all smiles on the sofa. "Did the elevator work for you?" I asked.  "Yes, why wouldn't it?"  Why not, indeed.