Wednesday, June 10, 2009


Elevators are an incredible invention. I find it hard to believe I could find more than one or two people in the world that would not tout, if given the chance, the genius that created such a blessing to women in excruciatingly high heels or the pathetically lazy everywhere. Me being a woman that occasionally wears excruciatingly high heels but that is dependably, pathetically lazy, I appreciate the goods the elevator offers more than most inventions used throughout my day.

Hence comes my new obsession: let's take the story back a month or so ago (no exact dates known) to the place this all began. I was returning from my daily 2 and three quarters of a minute lunch (which in the corporate world is more than enough time to shove an entire piece of bread in your throat, coat it with coffee so it slides down easier, and smoke half of your cigarette in one drag). Upon reaching the elevator to crawl back into my office to lay sacrifice to the corporate gods (my two bosses - El Heffe and The Big Cheese) I leaned my tired/lazy bones on the ledge next to the elevator door. The beeps of plummeting floors made a crescendo telling me the doors were about to open, and at their opening I leaned my head in slightly in a truly feeble expression of workaholic agony and thereby caught the most incredible whiff of my life. The smell that consequently poured out of that lift was the most wonderful man-smell I have ever come in contact with. It was like the Brauny commercial guy flew out of the elevator and wrapped me up in his big, strong, manly arms and then did the dishes. Ladies, that's how good it was. Like having great sex and a maid all at the same time… we can only imagine, right?

In all honesty, though, it caught me completely by surprise and I almost tripped into the elevator with two middle-aged but still relatively handsome men. They were clearly flustered by my awkward state until I announced, without consideration or intelligence the source of my maladroit condition. "I don't know who it is, but one of you smells delicious." Yup, that's how I said it. Delicious, implying edible which isn't much more than a hop, skip, and a jump from "I want to eat you up from head to toe." Of course the situation wasn't improved by the way I said those words; husky voice from just inhaling an entire cigarette in one controlled and practiced breath, mouth slightly agape, head tilted to one side implying serious thought, eyes closed in awe and extreme emotion, and of course leaning slightly toward the both of them faintly sniffing. A dog would have been more subtle.

They were both flattered a bit (I'm hoping instead of appalled), and both chimed in like school boys "It's me!" Unfortunately the elevator was much too fast that day, seeing as it's speed fluctuates depending on whether or not the repairman has been there within the last hour, and their floor was up almost immediately after those two lines. I didn't have time to smell each of them and find out who it was. I didn't have time to ask them both what kind of cologne they wore so that I could rush instantly to the nearest department store and coat my body in the scent that was positively identified by my recently molested nose. They were gone in the blink of an eye, and the only thing left to do was simply to ride the elevator up and down until the smell was entirely perverted by all of the stinky passengers to come, and you could no longer get even the most faint aroma of that succulent man smell. Which I did. I rode that elevator for about 15 minutes until a fruit cart got on and then all I could smell were old bananas and cantaloupe, which I hate to say killed the mood a little for me.

This day passed, but every time now I decide I'm feeling exceptionally lazy (which is most every time I get up), I head for the elevator door and wait in extreme anticipation for the doors to open. Could it be that this time I will visit once again with the Brauny man and hopefully get a name or even a location of the place I could stalk this fragrance until I can make it my own?

A girl can only hope…

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