How many times have I suggested we all face our fears? How many times have I quoted Eleanor Roosevelt on fear? You’d probably think I’m some completely fearless, super brave, incredibly courageous soul. I’m not. I’m quite ordinary, in most respects, and fears are no different. I have a healthy amount of fear, and I do strive to face them head on. I used to be afraid to fly. Some time between childhood and motherhood, I became afraid to fly. I didn’t like being out of control, unable to take over, if necessary. I fly all the time now, without a fearful thought, or nary a concern or worry. I’m a bit afraid of heights, yet I rock climb, I cross streams, backpacking, on narrow log bridges, I’ve been skydiving, and love it.

I used to be afraid of flying. I have evolved. I understand the Bernoulli principle, but still marvel that we are aloft.
I used to be afraid of flying. I have evolved. I understand the Bernoulli principle, but still marvel that we are aloft.

I’m afraid of elevators. I mean, I ride them. All the time. I have to. Well, I don’t HAVE to, but I often work in very tall buildings in New York City, San Francisco, Chicago, Atlanta, and Los Angeles. When I go to the gym and work out on the step mill, I briskly walk up 72 flights of stairs, at a steady cadence, without stopping. It takes me fifteen minutes. Then I proceed with forty-five more minutes of cardio, followed by weights or an hour and a half of yoga. But I’m really, really sweaty, after just the step mill. So, yes, I could walk to the top of the Empire State Building or Rockefeller Center, but I’d be too gross and sweaty to make a good impression on my clients! So, I opt for the elevator.

I am normal. I have fears. I fear elevators. I fear elevators that stop elevating.
I am normal. I have fears. I fear elevators. I fear elevators that stop elevating.

Why do I fear elevators? Well, actually, I think they’re fun. I like the roller coaster dropping tummy feeling on a high-speed elevator, and, yes, if alone, I will jump when the elevator first moves. It’s not the elevator moving, it’s the potential for the elevator to stop moving. With me in it. Between floors. I’m afraid of being stuck in an elevator.

An Effort to Evolve

Upon entering an elevator, whether I’m at a hotel and only have three floors to travel and opted for the elevator only because I have two full suitcases, or because I’m all dressed up for work and have thirty floors to go in an office building, I always look at the inspection tag to see if the elevator has had its regular, required inspection. If it hasn’t, I fret. Just a little.

This past week, I stayed in a hotel with a lurchy, creaky, elevator, minus the required posted inspection tags altogether. I used it only twice; suitcases up day one and suitcases down for check out. I took the stairs the rest of the time. Three floors, no big. The office building I worked in this week had five floors, there are four elevators, complete with inspection tags, all in good order. I have worked in this office building a dozen times, weeks at a time, year after year. Up, down, up, down, up, down. The elevators lurch and creak and moan and smell kind of like hot lubricant of some sort, but the tags are up to date and everyone seems to rely on them. Except for Chuck. He takes the stairs. But that’s kind of just Chuck.

The other day, my last day with this client, this month, we were on our way to lunch. We had a very full afternoon ahead of us and were intent on getting back to work within an hour. A group of us waited for the elevator. I was headed to lunch with a manager and several of my students were headed to lunch together. So, there were probably six or seven of us in the elevator, in all. We lurched down a few floors, from the fifth to the second. Who takes an elevator DOWN one flight? The biggest, fattest, hairiest, sweatiest, most loud, obnoxious, boorish, attorney I’ve ever witnessed, that’s who. At the second floor, the doors part and here stands this rotund man in a suit, with a briefcase. The elevator was full. Full with just us, six or seven accountants. Well, auditors, actually. The good kind, not I.R.S. auditors. I scoot back and welcome the portly man in, saying something about “the more the merrier”. I’d just been teaching my class about risk assessment, so I cracked a joke, an “audit” joke, something about “what’s the risk?” At about that time, the doors clenched shut and the elevator did nothing. It didn’t lurch or groan or moan or smell, it just sat there. I could feel my eyes grow about six times their usual size. I’d jinxed the elevator. My mind was racing, so I’m not sure if the voice I heard was the voice of terror in my mind, or if one of my students said, “you jinxed it!”

The fat dude in the suit was way in my personal space, not that anyone had much personal space, but he was definitely way too close to me, with his back turned to me. All I could do was stare at the stubbly, gray hair growing down the nape of his neck and into the collar of his shirt. You know, the hair that most suit wearing men with short hair have shaved neatly? And I marveled, too, at the sheer amount of fabric that made up his suit. I was closest to the buttons, me and Goliath. We both took turns pressing all of them. We finally thought to use the phone in the little compartment of the elevator, beneath the button panel. I could open the little door, but I couldn’t reach the phone without bending over, which I couldn’t do because there was a man wall in my way, so the man wall clutched at the phone with his pudgy fist. Whoever answered that phone got an earful of belligerence and threats and cuss words. The building superintendent and a technician would be sent immediately, we were told.

An Effort to Evolve

Since the elevator hadn’t moved, we were still right at the second floor. We, the auditors, stood passively, quietly, shifting from foot to foot. The massive attorney fumed and shifted and swore. When we could hear voices on the other side of the door, the super and the tech, we assumed, the lawyer yelled obscenities at them and threatened them. I’m thinking; a) great, piss them off and we’ll never get out of here b) there is no fan running and no fresh air source, how much oxygen is this gas bag wasting being an ass hat? c) oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. I’m a bit claustrophobic and I was starting to feel pretty panicky. I could just see me totally losing it. No, actually, I couldn’t envision that at all. I’m very stoic, I’d freak out on the inside, but look totally normal on the outside. I guess. I don’t know. I’ve never been stuck in an elevator before. I decide to practice my deep breathing, like when I meditate, to calm myself, to focus. I focus on my breath, quietly. It wasn’t like I was in the corner doing an ujjayi breath, or Lamaze panting, or anything like that. I just breathed real slow, real quiet and real deep and focused on that for a bit.

Minutes passed. Everyone was fixated on their respective phones, scrolling, texting, playing “Words with Friends”. I’d taken a picture and posted it to several social media sites. Just feet, I took a picture of a whole bunch of dress shoes atop a worn elevator carpet and captioned it “stuck in an elevator with a bunch of auditors”. I got no comments, ever. One of my students endeavored to find “elevator music” on his phone and settled for Miles Davis, which I was quite enjoying. But, with each passing minute, the zombie apocalypse version of Rush Limbaugh that stood in front of me would launch into another tirade of curse words, empty threats and large clouds of carbon dioxide.

Stuck in an elevator with a bunch of auditors. And rabid Shrek.
Stuck in an elevator with a bunch of auditors. And rabid Shrek.

More time passed. I was still focusing on my breathing and had begun to prioritize the afternoon agenda, deciding which topics could be omitted and not cause any of these up and coming auditors to neglect detecting fraud in some high profile audit. I began to panic again. So much responsibility, teaching auditors to audit. The future of the stock market, of capitalism itself, in my hands. One undetected fraudulent act, one missed material misstatement, because of a glossed over agenda item in an auditing CPE class and western civilization and the barely recovering economy, lost. Breathe in. Breathe out. Calm. Sanity restored. Perspective regained.

The Incredible Hulk started yelling again. The building super and the tech hadn’t made any progress. They’ve called the “repair guy”, who is “on his way”. We know not from where. Hulk roars; more obscenities, more threats, less oxygen for us all. I’ve taken my winter coat off. I managed to slide my very heavy handbag down to the floor, careful that the gold tassel I so covet doesn’t get trod on by the Clydesdale man beast.

More minutes pass. It’s getting uncomfortably stuffy and hot. I began to worry about a) enough fresh air to sustain us all b) long term, if we are to be stuck in the elevator for weeks, let’s say, who’s going Donner party on whom? c) my hair is going to start frizzing out of control. We heard another voice join the chorus “on the other side”. The repairman. King Kong goes ape shit and actually says, first thing, without any information or indication, without any provocation, “are you fucking Union?” Great. We’re in here for life. One of my mild mannered students, a sweet Kosher kid, finally snaps and says, politely, articulately, “I really don’t think that’s helping.” I’m waiting for punches to be thrown, when, suddenly, the elevator doors begin to part. A hand from outside appears between them, then another, and then the doors are pulled apart. And we walked out, filed down the stairs one floor, out into the cool, fresh Long Island air, and over to Bobby’s Burger Palace for a quick lunch. We left rabid Shrek behind, yelling and cursing and threatening our saviors.

Bobby Flay's L.A. Burger at Bobby's Burger Palace (Garden City, Long Island)
Bobby Flay’s L.A. Burger at Bobby’s Burger Palace (Garden City, Long Island)

Have you ever been overwhelmingly, hopelessly stuck in the elevator of life? Have you ever felt like your life isn’t moving in the direction you thought it would, isn’t moving at all? Do you ever panic or worry or fret, curse, yell or threaten, when things just aren’t progressing? Have you ever felt angry or stressed or sad, depressed, bitter, discouraged, at being stuck where you are? Just like being stuck in the elevator, being stuck in life is temporary, everything, after all, is temporary. Everything will pass, guaranteed. Just breathe deeply, be calm, regain your focus, get some clarity, persevere, and things will work out. If your goal is to go up, or down, in an elevator and the elevator breaks, you still, eventually, get where you intend to go. Or you die. Either way, the being stuck part ends. So, too, in life.

In that elevator, stuck at the second floor, when I felt my irrational panic begin to rise, I recalled lessons in meditation I’ve been practicing. I learned, again, in practicality, that I can control how I react, even if I can’t control the situation. This is something I knew, already, and practice, and preach. But to have it presented to me in a situation I have always feared, always dreaded, reinforced the lesson in such a tangible, tactile fashion, I shall never forget it.

After lunch, when we returned to the classroom, our tale was shared with those who took another elevator, or the stairs. One of the managers told a tale, of her husband, who’d been stuck in an elevator, in Rockefeller Center, when there was a power outage in New York City. They were between floors, in that elevator car, for over five hours. The rescue crew had to break through the wall to the elevator car to then pry the doors open. I listened, in awe, in horror, and my immediate thought was “I’d never survive!” Of course I would survive. Of course I would. I’d come out of it wiser and better able to cope. Or in a straight jacket. Nah.

When I think of the “unsurvivable” things I’ve not only lived through, but from which I’ve ended up growing, evolving, and drawing a great deal of strength from; the death of friends, of family members, the parting of ways of once best friends, divorce, foreclosure, losing the dream ranch, re-homing pets, re-homing rescued horses, low self-esteem, an unhealthy lifestyle. And no regrets, ever, without those “tragedies” and experiences, I wouldn’t be half the person I am now. I was stuck in those situations, in those patterns, in that lifestyle. And now I’m not. They were temporary. I breathed my way through, got clarity and focus and persevered. I’m sure you’ve been stuck in your own elevators in life, and you’ve made it through. What have you learned? That you’ll make it through, at the least. But, did you learn from it, too? Do you carry those lessons with you, to draw from in whatever temporary situation you’re in now, that you’ll face later?

Perhaps you’re stuck right now! Whether you’re stuck in an elevator, in line at Target, in traffic, or in a dead end job, a damaging relationship, an unfulfilling career, an unhealthy lifestyle, in indecision, in a state of depression, or in a world of self loathing and poor self esteem, know that all things are temporary, and with meditation, focus, clarity, time and perseverance, we will get unstuck. Keeping rational, and breathing through it, though, will allow us not just to triumph, but to also glean a life lesson we can remember and draw from, again, if, or more accurately, when, we get stuck next. Going up?





Scarlett’s Letter August 24, 2013

It isn’t even 2:00 PM, what a fantastic day, so far.

I stayed up way, way, way too late last night. My original intent was to write, work on a video project and go to bed kind of early, get up really early, and be downtown by about 7:00 or 8:00 AM. Well, I stayed up until 4:00 AM, I was really, really into my video project. And I finished two half bottles of wine, generous halves. By myself. Because I didn’t want to pack them home in my checked bag, opened. I’ve done it successfully, before, but I prefer not to, and so, I had an excuse to polish it off.

I managed to get up before 8:00, got ready, had breakfast, packed, checked out and headed for downtown Chicago. Traffic was terrible, on a Saturday morning, and the drive that should’ve taken twenty minutes took an hour. So I was even later than my renegotiated late start. I parked in a garage, and because they all look alike and I know I’ll be in a hurry to leave when the time comes, I took a picture of the car in its spot, I took a picture of the elevator vestibule with the floor level emblazoned on it, and I took a picture of the aisle I was parked in from the elevator vestibule. Once out the door and on the sidewalk, I took a picture of the awning with the address. This is what I do. This is how I manage to move through the world seemingly effortlessly. I document everything.

I walked and took pictures, walked and took pictures, walked and took pictures, walked some more and took more pictures. I was a little antsy about my departure, worried about traffic on the return. The guy at the front desk at the hotel said that two lanes of I-90 between downtown and O’Hare were closed all weekend and to allow some extra time for that. He also said that traffic worsens on the weekends as the day wears on. I asked if an hour would be enough time to get to O’Hare. He said he thought it would be about right, but he also said it should only take twenty minutes to get downtown. And it took an hour.  I planned to leave downtown around noon. I know, I know. I have a 4:00 PM flight, but I really, really hate being late and rushed and stressed, and I really, really, really, love O’Hare and their food, beverage and shopping options. It is one of my all time favorite airports to kill time in and absolutely, positively, hands down, wins the best airport bathroom competition, if there were one.

Getting up close and personal with downtown Chicago. I need more time here.
Getting up close and personal with downtown Chicago. I need more time here.

At about 11:00, I really didn’t feel like I’d seen all that much of the city. I expected more. At this point, I was at the Union Station Riverwalk, which appreciated, but I wanted to see more. I’d seen the “Sears” Tower and have photographs from many angles. How was I going to see the most in just an hour? I crossed the river and was met by a very tan, older man in the scariest shade of orange I’ve ever laid eyes on. Of course he spoke to me, everyone speaks to me. I write down in my affirmations every single morning, “I am friendly, outgoing and approachable.” And, so, I am. He worked for the Shoreline Sightseeing Water Taxi. In all my travels and all my touristy endeavors, I have never taken a water taxi. I’ve had dinner cruises, usually during work-related conferences and meetings, but I have never voluntarily plunked down money for a water taxi tour. Scary orange shirt tan guy facilitated my first, ever, water taxi sightseeing tour. I told him I had an hour and wanted to see as much of the city as possible. He led me down the stairs to the boat, spoke with the “captain”, “pilot”, “sailor”, “admiral”, or whatever you call the dude that drives the water taxi. And he said his trip to Navy Pier and back would take about an hour. Perfect, I swiped my credit card for $14 and bought my ticket. For the next hour we cruised to Navy Pier with a stop along the way (Google where the apple store is).

The water taxi sightseeing tour was perfect, it was relaxing, I wasn’t wearing out my shoes, but, then again, I wasn’t getting exercise. And the views were amazing. I got about a billion pictures, which I’ve reduced to a video, below. I saw more of Chicago in the hour round trip than I could’ve done walking, most certainly, and even driving. Next time I’m here, I hope to be able to arrange my arrival and/or departure to allow me some time on the ground at Navy Pier and the Sky Deck of the “Sears” Tower.

I arrived back at Adams Street at about 12:10, I’d planned to leave downtown, originally, by 12:00, so I was starting a little late. I made my way, handily, back to the garage, found my car lickity split, and headed on my way. As I entered I-90 towards O’Hare, the traffic was barely creeping. Barely moving is, of course, faster than barely creeping by several degrees. Thankfully, two things, I entered in the left lane, and, the express lanes were open “outbound” over the weekend, probably because of the two “local” lanes being closed. The entrance to the express lanes is a left hand entrance, so I only had to navigate through the traffic for three quarters of a mile, then expressed myself at some amount over the posted fifty-five mile per hour limit all the way to 1-190 and O’Hare. I dropped off my rental car at precisely 12:58 PM. My original plan was to drop off the rental car at 1:00 PM. Suddenly, I’m ahead of schedule. By 1:15, I’m through security with a free first class upgrade and headed for Beaudevin, one of my favorite wine bars in the world. Not that I’ve been to every wine bar in the world, but I’m working on it. Nancy was working. She is awesome. I don’t know that I’ve ever been here when Nancy isn’t working. For the record, if you need a mimosa at O’Hare at 6:30 AM, ever, Nancy is your gal.

Thank you Chicago for the reversible express lanes! Glad they were going my way today!
Thank you Chicago for the reversible express lanes! Glad they were going my way today!

Today, I had red wines. Of course. I built my own flight. Sorry, Nancy, I didn’t like the flights on the menu.  Beaudevin offers three ounce pours, six ounce pours and bottles. I had a three-ounce pour of the Nickel and Nickel Merlot. Fantastic. I think they’re next on my winery tour agenda. Perhaps next week some time, especially if Mom is up to it. Which, she usually is. For free wine, she is usually feeling mobile and agile and perky. I also had a three-ounce pour of La Crema Pinot Noir and Louis Martini Cabernet Sauvignon. Nancy’s shift ended, so I closed out my tab. Fernando took over. Smiley Fernando. I’ve seen him before. I resisted for a bit, but finally relented and decided on something delectable from France, the Mouton-Cadet Bordeaux. Supposedly, my father’s side of the family is originally from the Bordeaux region of France. Whether factual, or not, I’m sticking with that claim. It was a fantastic wine.

Nickel and Nickel Merlot at Beaudevin Wine Bar in O'Hae.
Nickel and Nickel Merlot at Beaudevin Wine Bar in O’Hae.

By the way, happy National Peach Pie Day. I could eat a piece of peach pie, if it were handy. And complimentary. Today is also National Waffle Day, and now, I’m sad. I would absolutely adore a waffle right about now. I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I am starving, but I will be getting free airline food with my free first class upgrade, so I’m not buying anything to eat. Not even waffles. Even if there were a place for waffles close at hand at O’Hare. If I could click my ruby slippers together, right now, and be anywhere, I’d be at Cafeteria 15L for chicken and waffles in recognition of National Waffle Day. I am actually bummed. Here I am, sitting at some dive wine bar in some stupid airport sipping on some silly Bordeaux when I could be noshing on chicken and waffles. I won’t be getting to Sac-Town until after Cafeteria 15L closes, so, I guess National Waffle Day will pass without my contribution to the celebration. Besides, I’m trying to be good. I actually have an organic, heirloom tomato and an organic apple in my purse, for healthy and conscientious consumption. Hope it travels well, I’m probably not eating either. After twelve ounces of red wine and no food since 8:00 AM an organic, heirloom tomato and an organic apple isn’t going to cut it. I may have to head to Torta Frontera before boarding the plane and eating my free airline food.

It is precisely 2:56 PM. At exactly 3:00 PM I need to head from Terminal C to Terminal B. My flight boards at 3:25, I need to be there. You just never know, the people mover might not be moving, you have to allow extra time for life’s uncertainties. Especially in traveling. That’s just how I fly.