There is No 13th Floor Here.

I stepped in the elevator.

What floor?

Did they ask me that, or did I just know they were wondering?

I was afraid.

There were more than 20 floors.  If we fell to the basement, we would die.  How fast was the elevator?  Only one floor.  We should only go up one floor.

She pushed the highest button.

NO!

I pushed the bottom button, but it was too late.  We were flying.  Up, up - so high, my stomach couldn't keep up.


We reached the top.

But I had made a fatal error.  I had pushed the bottom button.


Down.

Fast.

My feet lifted off the ground.  We were falling faster than my weight could keep up.  I was suspended in the air.  My head hit the elevator's ceiling.

How far until we crashed?

Maybe, I'd survive.  Maybe it would slow down.  Maybe the cables would get stuck and save us.

Oh.  Hey.  Look at that.  I'm in bed.  I'm not suspended in the air in an elevator plummeting to certain death.  I'm sleeping.  Er... well... I was sleeping.  Stupid elevator, waking me up with a flash of terror.

So, I used to have an irrational fear of elevators.  It wasn't a huge deal, just a mild sense of discomfort and a quickening of pulse whenever I rode one that had more than a couple floors.  It's weird; I never had that fear as a child.  It was only after I came out to college that it suddenly cropped up.

Anyway, I decided that was the most retarded thing to be afraid of, and I wasn't going to be scared by freaking elevators anymore.  So, I went to the tallest building on campus and rode the elevator a few times, told myself to get over it, and then more or less did.

That doesn't mean I didn't still have crashing elevator nightmares (thanks, brain), but at least I taught myself how not to think about it.

Until today.

So, if my failed and feeble attempt at figuring out instagram actually worked, then my facebook page will be littered with pictures of the Grand America hotel in Salt Lake City.  And let me tell you what. 

See, I've done fine dining.  It wasn't that great.  It was a lot of waiting for a little food that was super pretty on the plate, but honestly, Cracker Barrel could have made it taste better.

Now fine... lodging?  Okay, fine hoteling, on the other hand.  Dang!  I slathered my facebook page in pictures of the bed, the couch, the mini-fridge that is in my bedside table and SO does not look like a fridge, but actually is, and, of course, the best beer I have ever seen: Polygamy Porter! Why have just one?

Yeah.

Awkward.

Anyway, whilst running around my room like a caffeinated toddler, taking pictures off the balcony, taking pictures of the sparkly lobby, nearly puking from terror when I looked at how high off the ground I was on the balcony, and taking a shower just so I could stand in the clear glass box... and play with the faucet... and play with the steam on the clear glass box... and use the incredible smelling shampoo, I went up and down the elevator a few times.  Oh, and let me just add that since I'm here on business, I was working too.  Quite a bit, actually.  That's why I was going up and down the elevator.  My work laptop was upstairs, the convention was downstairs, and I was juggling my normal assignments with helping with the convention.

Okay, just to be clear, they put me on the FIFTEENTH floor.  And not only that, but these elevators go at the speed of your average, run of the mill, ICBM.  The fancy-pants bellman escorted me to the elevator, he pushed the button labeled 15, the doors closed, the doors opened, and we were there.  I vaguely remember a "losing my stomach" sensation in the middle of that somewhere, but otherwise, there was NO travel time.

And that was just the way up.

Oh man... I swear, on my first trip back down, I'm pretty sure my feet lifted off the floor.  Fifteen floors in the time it normally takes me to go ONE on the elevator at work.

Quite frankly, I'm stunned I didn't curl up in a little ball and cry right there in the lift.  (I would have called it an elevator, since I'm in the USA, but I've said elevator like 300 times already in this post, so I decided to go all foreign-language on it's butt.)  I'm also amazed that by the 37th ride on that box of death (another new name!  Look at how creative I'm being!  I must have fed my pet thesaurus rex) I didn't barf my chicken club sandwich all over the sparkly chandeliers (yes, I was that disoriented... I would have barfed UP.  At the ceiling).

And, in closing, a quick rant about the numbering system in the elevator.

Okay, I don't care HOW superstitious you are, but labeling the 13th floor as "14" does NOT change the fact that IT STILL COMES AFTER 12!!!  Count them, people.  One.  Two.  Three.  Four.  Five.  Six.  Seven.  Eight.  Nine.  Ten.  Eleven.  Twelve.  Fourteen?  Really.  You're not fooling anyone.

Now, if you DID want to fool someone, you could put an extra, unlabeled floor in the basement, and then all the people sleeping on floor number TWELVE could be possessed by demons and murdered by serial killers and crash to their deaths when they attempt to get off the elevator.

But really.  There's still a 13th floor, morons.  It's just labeled wrong.