When I first found out my apartment building didn’t have an elevator and my apartment was on the fourth floor my immediate reaction was, “My ass is gonna look GREAT!” Just as any other human being would react. My lack of working out at the gym would be justified by how active I would become running up and down these stairs. My ass would get tighter and my calves would look amazing. I was winning all around. It didn’t hit me until later (approximately two trips up and down the stairs later) that these stairs would soon be my nemesis.
It’s been a month since I’ve moved in and I’m still out of breath every time I reach my door. The thought of forgetting something or having to go back downstairs pains me. I HATE THESE STAIRS. SO. MUCH.
Today, I finally found it in me to get the microwave that was in my trunk for two weeks and make use of it in my kitchen. I’m not sure why I was feeling so ambitious however, this feeling quickly vanished and I was left fighting to the death with a 50 pound microwave.
I know you probably think I’m exagerrating, BUT I AM NOT. After breaking the handle of the box on both ends before even getting to my entry door, I finally reached the stairs. At this point, the microwave box is broken and I’m still on the ground floor. I quickly assess the situation and decide that it would probably be best to drag the box all the way up the stairs – caveman style. This of course was an ultimate fail and the microwave slipped out of my fingers and slid all the way back down -TWICE.
I then leave the microwave at the bottom of the stairs, run up to my apartment, drop off my purse, take off my jacket, pick up my hair and get ready for some serious business and heavy lifting. At this point, my inner hulk was ready to take on the world and I ran up the stairs with the microwave over my head like a champion. Okay, I’m lying. It wasn’t that smooth but it finally made it up to my apartment.
Now, you’ll have to excuse me while I microwave the shit out of my dinner.