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.

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?

Where to now?

I listened to a very interesting podcast this morning on my way to work. It’s called Beautiful Anonymous.
It’s an American podcast in which the host invites a caller each week to call in and talk about anything they wish for an hour; no names or personal identifiers are given. That’s the beauty of it. These anonymous callers are free to talk to the host, Chris Gethard, about their topic of choice, and quite literally just chat about it. It’s bloody lovely. And the host’s voice is pretty incredible; he’s also very inters testing to listen to.

This week, Chris talked to a chap who was torn between leaving his well paid, secure job in Tech to buy a local record store and sell vinyl records; a passion of his.

It got me thinking. What would I do if money was no object? If I didn’t need money, or want money to fund a lifestyle. I have no idea. There are lots of jobs that I think would be cool, or would allow me to meet interesting people, but what job would I actually enjoy?

Who out there has a job that they can wholehearted say they love and they want to spend the rest of their lives committed to? You are very lucky. And I’m very jealous. I love my job; but do I want to be a recruiter my whole life? Nada. I pump my mind full of podcasts, books and YouTube videos all about entrepreneurism, voyaging out on your own, doing a job you love and living the most content life you can. They rarely leave me feeling positive. Instead, they make me question what I’m doing, where I’m going, and what I should, or shouldn’t be doing to be happy. [Disclaimer – I’m not unhappy in relationships just pondering the question in regards to careers…] 

Is it too much to want the perfect job? Does it set unrealistic expectations? I’m not sure. I will always strive to be better, to want more, to do more; it makes me slightly hard to manage. I’m constantly training or completing educational courses in my own time to make my toolbox fatter; to what end? I have extremely high expectations of myself, I’m constantly disappointed by my efforts and continually looking for more in all aspects of my life.

I’m going to start keeping a note in my telephone of ideas, opinions, comments, epiphany’s that come to me about my future and where I want to be. Maybe once I identify that, I can start looking for the brick wall I need to climb over to get there.

 I am so excited to find my ‘thing’. I just hope it doesn’t take too long.

 What do you do? How do you manage your expectations and your impatience for what’s to come?

Where to now?