Floor seven, please

Lifts.

No, not the shoes Tom Cruise made famous. The big, metal machines that take people from one level of a building to another. The etiquette on these things is crazy. We have lifts at work; I can't get to and from my desk without navigating one. I mean, I could… but it would mean walking seven flights of stairs before 8am every morning. No thank you.

I feel like I've become a somewhat expert of lifts, and the dance we do when we need to use one. Let me enlighten you.

We scan our passes at the main entrance, and it's then about ten steps to the pair of lifts, of which 90% of staff use every single morning. You can imagine rush hour between 8-9am. It rivals the queue when bloody Tim Hortons opened in Glasgow and everyone acted like they'd never seen a coffee shop before.

You scan your pass, and are presented with one of two scenarios. One; you have to wait in line. Queues. Fucking, bloody queues. Once, I stood in an eight person queue, only to find out that nobody had pressed the button. That person got so many daggers in their back that day. Two; there's a lift door just closing as you are coming through the gate. You have made eye contact with the person in the lift. You've seen them. They have seen how close you are. Do you wave them on? Silently mouth 'no it's ok'? Or do you start the jog? The half jog, half walk we do whilst the person in the lift panics to hit the 'doors open' button, but instead they hit the 'doors close' button, and you are stood looking like a proper fudd, way too close to the now closed door? Personally, I never jog. I will wait the three minutes for the next one.

So, you're in the lift. Usually, at my time in the morning, there's only a couple of us. I hit floor seven; floor three is a popular one. Lazy buggers. But sometimes, it's a very full lift. Too many people. Too many bags. Just too many. And you hit every. Single. Floor. By the time I get to five, I'm so sweaty and grumpy that I go 'fuck it, let me out, I'm walking'. Two floors ain't that bad.

Sometimes people try and chat. The most common one is when you try and press the 'door open' button for someone but they don't make it. You joke together about hitting the wrong button, looking like a dick as you know the person running for the lift won't be getting on, and it's all your fault. You also joke about sometimes getting out on the wrong floor because you haven't paid attention. We sometimes talk about the weather, specifically if it's very sunny or very wet. "Busy week ahead?" is popular. And then some poor ass will be listening to their music too loudly and we will all stand and judge them. Oh, we judge them hard.

Then we get out of the lift. I have one main point of contention here. Men always let me go first. And I always say no. Out of my feminist fucking right to not be treated like a delicate flower. Sometimes the doors start to close because I'm resisting so much. Another point? People who say thanks when they exit the lift. It's alright mate, it's not like I have an actual job to go to, I'm just here to make sure you get to your floor safely. Happy to be of service.

Don't even get me started on the snooty lady who gets on the 5pm ride down and then overly sighs when we stop at every floor on the way down; we all want outta here lady.

Do you know what I love about lifts though? Absolutely fuck all. Let's install escalators please.

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Floor seven, please

Are we there yet?

I've been busy. Affa busy.

I've been adulting. How fucking annoying is that word? Adulting? It's fitting though. It shouldn't be, but it is. We shouldn't feel like we're still muddling through the world, a wary child, only acting like an adult a handful of times. Ironed a pair of pants? Adulting. Putting a bag of salad in a resealable food bag so it doesn't go off? Adulting. Saving money? Adulting. Purchasing mattress protectors? Adulting.

I've been adulting. I'm moving in with Mr K. All I can think of is Monica in friends, crying in to Rachel's arms crying, "and I have to live with the boy". Can you picture it? Can you hear her crying? I'm not crying about it, I'm bloody fucking excited. I've lived with boys for the last two years, two very lovely friends whom I have not know my new town without. Many say, oh but you've lived with boys already so it's not going to be that different. I think it will be. This particular boy will be in my bed… all the time… in my bed… using my stuff… using my expensive face wash… But do you know what? That is exactly what I'm excited about. Being responsible for someone other than myself.

So yes, I've been adulting. I've packed a scary amount of brown cardboard boxes, with labels handwritten in my unreadable scrawl, "bedroom", "spare room", "bathroom". I'm used to writing my name, because my boxes generally just went into one or two rooms that were mine. Not now; now everything is shared.

We have a "flat account". How grown up is that? We have contents insurance. Very adult. We bought a fancy new cutlery organiser after spending a good twenty minutes in Debenhams deliberating what to spend our £25 gift voucher on. Rolling pin vs. cutlery organiser. The latter was needed more urgently. (How urgently can you need a cutlery organiser?)

My current flat seems so bare. All the tat is gone from the walls, the mantle piece, all my girly arty farty decorations are down. It just looks like a space, not a home. And now, and the aforementioned crap is littering my our new home. Mr K loves it. I can tell. There's a wooden love heart hanging from four out of five door handles in the hall… I'm placing bets as to when he will get annoyed at them banging every time you open a door and remove them, hoping I won't notice. There's fairly lights, everywhere. Candles, everywhere. It's a bit girly. I'm going with the 'I'll put in everything I want and see what he removes' tactic… I'll let you know how much I end up with.

I also phoned the bank and requested a new debit card without contactless. I can't keep track of my money, there's nothing new. But I felt so adult. Taking action against my frivolous spending habit, and hoping the hassle of entering my PIN number every time will prevent me from 'popping' in for something.

What adulting thing have you done this month so far?

Are we there yet?

A gazelle

I did a very cool thing today. Cool by my standards.

I cycled to work. And then ran home from work.

Yes, you read it right. CYCLED to work, and RAN home. I’ll say it again, just in case you missed it. I cycled to work. And then ran home from work. Go fucking me. Hell yeah. I have found my perfect routine. A 13 minute cycle to work using the ever so fashionable Next Bikes (think Borris bikes in London), casual 9 hours in the office, then a 20 min run home.

Before a few weeks ago, I hadn’t been on a bike in about six years. That first time, with my super hot boyfriend in front of me in very tight shorts, I nearly fell over, crashed into a post, and narrowly avoided knocking over a small child. It was not good. I blame the shorts.

But now? Four attempts later, I am THE QUEEEN OF THE BIKE. I just glide. You know the way you glide when you have newly shaved every part of your body within an inch of your life? Glideeeeee. I glided to work. Sun in the sky, sunglasses slipping down my nose, bright red running trainers paired ever so effortlessly with my very smart office clothes, runny eyes (thanks wind), bright red freezing knuckles and a nervous twitch at every traffic light. Glided to work I did. Like a shiny smooth leg. Glided.

I had a running bag. Like a zippy, colourful, multi-pocketed (like who uses all of them anyway?) bag. A running bag. It held approximately one bra cup, a pair of leggings and a running top. But, it made me feel like a TOTAL BOSS. I felt like if someone was chasing after me, I could outrun them AND show off my fancy new bag at the same time. They would be dazzled by my running bag. BOSS GIRL.

It chaffed a bit. When I ran home. *Side note: I would like to point out that when I say I went for a run, I really mean a jog. A 10 min mile jog.* It bounced a lot and rubbed against my neck a bit. As I was running, like a glorious fucking gazelle might I add, I found myself wishing I had some vaseline for my neck. Just a wee tin, maybe the green one with Aloe. Next time, next time.

I got home and felt like the fittest person in the whole entire world. Like, I could run a marathon. I should have been at London Marathon. I should be on the Olympic running team. Seriously, you should have seen my gazelle like movement. Beautiful strides, barely out of breath (I think I wasn’t breathing, that was it), not a drop of sweat (it was highlighter I swear). I sat down to a big bowl of pasta, because you need to refuel after a tough workout (2 miles…),  and ate seven Oreos. I still haven’t moved and it’s been 3 hours. My legs hurt. My back hurts. My feet feel like I’ve walked over hot coals for years. BUT I WAS A FUCKING QUEEN TODAY.

Exercise done for the week? You betcha.

How’s your running? Do you even run bro?

Your redhead.

A gazelle