I'm pretty certain the elevator wanted to keep me

So I posted about my (almost) anxiety-free weekend trip. The worst anxiety I had this weekend actually involved the stupid elevator at the hotel. I thought about devoting a whole post to it but thought that was kinda brilliant dumb. Who would want to read about my freak out over an elevator? And then I realized - probably the same people that read my rant about John Tesh. Who am I to judge?

The hotel itself was a renovated Sheraton. The lobby was nice and the room was great. A couple of minor picky issues if you really pressed me to find something to complain about but it met my basic criteria: clean and quiet with locking doors and decent wi-fi. (How else would I be able to blog about John Tesh? My priorities are SO in order!)

The trauma all revolved around the one element the hotel seemed to neglect in their upgrades - the elevator. Among my many neuroses is a strong streak of claustrophobia. Tunnels, small rooms, even sitting in the middle of an aisle instead of on the end can set me off. But fearless Joe said this elevator was making him a little nervous as well.

Everything appeared normal as we waited for the doors to open. Even after it was clear the elevator had arrived at the lobby, it paused for a long time before the doors parted. Then, they closed behind us VERY quickly. The inside was dark - no mirrors, no light-colored walls. Even the floor was black linoleum. Then, there was the "chime" indicating passage between levels. It was like a broken "bo-ing". Sad, distant, and definitely in need of repair. Or prozac.

Speaking of prozac... Once the clunky old elevator had made the ascent to the 5th floor, I was more than ready to break free. The pathetic BO-ING indicated we had arrived and I waited for the doors to open. And waited. And waited some more. Just when I was certain we had been swallowed up forever and would have to call for help, the doors slowly split.

But they didn't just open like ordinary doors. It was reminiscent of a seal breaking like when you first pop the safety lid on a jar of jam. Hermetically sealed like a coffin, gasping for air when finally they separated.

By the time we went back out that night, I had convinced myself the elevator was out to get me. Quick to lock you in and very slow to give you up once it had sucked you inside. I can only count my blessings that we weren't staying any higher than the 5th floor and no longer than one night. My sanity may not have survived additional trips in the elevator of death. Two round trips was more than enough.