Da Stairs

Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum. Da-dum. My heart palpitations are nearly visible through my shirt. I feel my heartbeat from my chest all the way down to my stomach. I sit down in an attempt to recover my breath, which is now so heavy that people are glancing over to make sure I’m okay. When I sit down, I feel my blood throbbing through my body, in unison with my thumping heart. I consciously try to slow my breathing, inhaling and exhaling as deeply and as quietly as possible. You must be thinking, “WOW! What a workout!” Well, it was…but it was not my usual workout. I just took the stairs.

We’ve all read somewhere, in some health magazine, that people really should consider taking the stairs. Easy enough…or is it? Every Wednesday, I travel to UNF’s campus to attend my graduate class—which meets in the Library. Last week, per my usual routine, I headed straight for the elevator. I scurried in, pressed “2”, and turned to face one lone passenger. He was about eighteen years old with caramel skin and sun-bleached hair (a surfer, no doubt). Now that I’d observed him, I awkwardly squeaked out some small talk. With my normal blonde eloquence, I noticed aloud, “Fourth floor, huh?” Immediately, he grinned back and in a semi-stoner voice proclaimed, “Yeah, I figured I’d take the elevator…not like I’m going to the second floor or anything.” Burn. At that moment, I suppose he noticed that, in fact, I was going to the second floor. He quickly followed, “Not that I’m judging.” BING! The elevator opened, and I jumped out—eager to escape any more awkward conversation with this adolescent. I resolved to take the stairs at UNF’s library from then on.

Today, I arrive at the library hours before my class to complete a bit of research. I head towards the elevator, but then I remember last week’s resolution. I stop in the middle of the foyer…stairs on my left, elevator on my right. The guy at the circulation desk stares in a befuddled manner, since I’ve apparently lost where I was going. My outer fat body tempts me to consider that TODAY is not like normal—I am not just going to the second floor this time; I am embarking upon the FOURTH floor, the floor that even surfers use the elevator for. Within a minute, my inner thin woman took over and guided my legs towards the stairs. Up. Up. Up. Up. Up. Up. I get to the first landing, and I regret the choice to bring my laptop—since it makes my book bag about five pounds heavier. I could easily go back down, but then I would really look crazy. I climb the next set of steps to the second floor. I peer around at this floor. The elevator gleams and giggles, urging me to give up and take a ride for the next two floors.

I turn around, ignoring the elevator’s invitation, and bound up the next flight. I realize that the higher I go, the more I dislike the architect who designed these stairs. They are quite scary. I realize that I can see through them to the floor below me, which truly taunts my equilibrium. I decide to just look up and keep climbing.

Before I know it, I am on the last landing—looking up at the glorious fourth floor. At this point, I realize I am huffing and puffing so hard that one would think I not only took the stairs, but also sprinted from my car. Knowing the fourth floor is the “Quiet Zone” I decide to stop on this landing and commemorate my first climb up Mount Staircase. I grab my iPhone, snap a picture, and crawl my way up the last ten steps. Since I’m still panting from my excursion, I look for the first place to sit and gain my composure (i.e. my breath). I pull out my laptop, place my hands on the keyboard, and feel the blood still drumming through my veins. As I type my blog about this momentous occasion, I hear the elevator’s ding-dong. I look over to my right to see who gets off. As I watch a girl in her twenties emerge from the cavernous elevator, I don’t judge her. But I do feel slightly superior, since—after all—I took the stairs.