damned stairs

I had two run-ins with elevators this morning and that’s more than the required amount of zero. The Moving Stairs Workers Union (and they get a lot of work around these parts) were doing maintenance on the single-track lazy rider that runs from our skywalks to the Metro plaza so the Eleven had to walk down actual stairs. I find it unacceptable if for no other reason than it disrupts the perfect pace of those with 36” inseams. After a peck kiss and sobbing separation inside the Ballston station (she goes New Carrollton way; I go Vienna) I smoothly swipe my SmartTrip card, grab a bus transfer (click click print print), and head for the elevator down to the tracks. My sunglasses still on, looking cool, a good rhythm in my stride, and onto the escalator as always…stammer, stumble, what the hell? The escalator isn’t actually running (which happens often enough) - it’s imitating stairs - and I’m not expecting the surprise of a sudden slowdown; it’s the reverse feeling you get when stepping off the moving walkway and finding out you don’t have the correct rotation speed. You can’t help looking a bit idiotic. I really should pay more attention during my commute.

I’m grilling black bean burgers (for us) and hot dogs (for monkeys) this evening, if you feel like stopping over they’ll be ready about 6:30. I include this information only as exculpatory evidence that I indeed cook food to order for everyone living at, or visiting, the executive dining room on North Park Dr.; and, as an attempt to offset someone’s smirk this morning when I said I was abracadabra-ing salmon and magic potatoes for Laurel tomorrow evening. So there.

T.