Going Up?

We have these two glass elevators at work. Everyone uses them because they are in the middle of the building and, I’m not going to lie, you feel a bit like Charlie in Wonka’s chocolate factory when you ride in them. So obviously, everyone rides in them, hoping we’ll get an everlasting gobstopper one of these days.

Anyway, today I came into work a little more perturbed than usual because of the snowy morning commute. But I arrive to work safely, get into the building and come to the glass elevators. I press the orange button for the one of the elevators and it lights up both buttons for both of them, because that’s just what happens.

A lady comes up behind me looking uber perturbed (so, I’m guessing her morning wasn’t going any better than mine) with her backpack, computer bag and tote looking a bit like a human pack-mule.

She presses the already lit button. Like four more times.

I mean everyone knows that the if you press the already lit button furiously over and over again, the elevator comes even faster! 

Wrong. So, so wrong.

She rushes into the elevator before me, because apparently she was raised in a barn where you don’t do the whole “first come, first served” thing. Whatever.

Of course, she is taking up half of this stupid elevator, but I figure I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt with her pack-muleness.

As soon as the doors are closing, a guy runs up and shoves his arm in the elevator. Dumb move, dude. His arm is smashed between the doors and then they spring open, much to everyone’s surprise.

And then, AND ONLY THEN, homeboy presses the button for the ground floor. THE GROUND FLOOR, PEOPLE!!!

We were in the basement and the stairs are right next to the elevator, but this guy, who is in his young twenties and looks quite able (at least as far as I can tell from when he sprinted for the elevator) decides he just “can’t even” with the stairs this morning.

Okay, so we have to stop on the ground floor for this dude. He gets off looking quite pleased with himself, because why not? Then the doors shut once more and we keep ascending…but only to the first floor.

There are about six people that need to get into the elevator on the first floor, so of course everyone has to press each button and then smush themselves against each other. To make matters worse, this was 8am. Translation: it was approximately 20 minutes after every one of the four men in the elevator applied their super strong musky smelling aftershave.

So I’m stuck in the smelly hotbox from hell with no ventilation until we make it to my floor; the top floor of the building.

I’m finally thankful for the people who are stopping on each floor because of the influx of fresh air to take away some of the stench.

We stop on the floor below mine and the woman pack-mule AND the smelly males get off, so I can finally breathe again.

Riding up to my floor alone, all I can think about is how I’m taking the stairs tomorrow.


Should have listened to Pinterest and this whole thing could have been avoided…

Until next time,

C. Brooks

The Drama in Waiting

We’ve all been there and I happen to be there at this point in my life. I’m talking about the point where a boy and a girl go out. Boy says he had a good time and that he’ll call her so they can do it again sometime. Girl jumps at her iPhone when it rings the next day like it’s the last donut at the staff meeting.

It turns out to be Charter asking me if I’m satisfied with my internet services and the following thought process occurs:

1. “I leapt off my kitchen barstool, jumped over a chair and crashed into the coffee table for Charter?!?!

2. “Obviously I’m satisfied with my internet! Here’s a hint: if it works and is faster than the speed of smell, I’m satisfied.”

3. “Why are Charter ladies so chatty? Always tying up phone lines for people who I actually would care if they called.”

4. “What am I thinking? I don’t care if he called. I’m a strong, independent…oh god, I sound like a bad 80’s self-help tape.”

5. “Maybe I’ll just make a snack and it’ll get my mind off of it.”

6. “Okay, that bag of popcorn, bowl of Cheez-Its and two glasses of wine were a bad idea for a snack.”

7. “I’ll paint my nails because then my hands will be busy. Genius!”

8. “Dear god! Did my nails look this bad last night?! Of course he’s not going to call because, obviously! Who wants to date a girl with shit nails? He’s totally not going to call.”

9. “Okay, it probably wasn’t my nails. Maybe I’m too fat for him!! Maybe he didn’t like my personality!! Maybe I was too sarcastic for his liking…”

10. “Well then, to hell with him! I don’t need a guy who can’t go toe to toe with my sarcasm. Sarcasm goes with everything.”

11. “If you can’t say anything nice, say it sarcastically.”

12. “Why hasn’t he called yet? My hair looked awesome and I finally did a smokey-eye that didn’t look like I got punched in the face!”

13. “Screw it. I’m going to recreate that look and go out with my friends for drinks. I won’t even remember what’s-his-name by the end of the night.

14. “Damn. I’ve done it again. I look hot.”

15. “But, with my luck, I’ll get another guy who also won’t call.”

16. “Whatever. I give up.”

17. “Oh. My. God. My phone is ringing! IT’S HIM!!”

18. “Calm down. Let it ring at least three times, because you don’t want to seem too eager. Remember to sound blasé.”

19. “Oh, hey there …yeah, not a problem; everyone’s phone dies … sure, tomorrow night sounds great!”

20. “Well, obviously he called me. I wasn’t all that worried.”

Just Try to Stay Still

Lying on the table for my MRI, the technician’s voice comes through the noise-cancelling headphones, “now don’t move…just try to lie still…make sure not to move.” I almost want to ask, “Wait…so I shouldn’t move, then?” But then I can hear my mother’s voice in my head telling me to stop being a smartass and I just let them do the test.

“This one is going to be about a minute long. Don’t move!”


That is the sound I hear over and over again. Sometimes the noises are a slow and soft ‘THUMP’, but, for the most part the tapping noise is fast and suppressed. It reminds me of the speed of a machine gun going off multiple times, but with the muffled sound like something was being hit over and over inside the machine.


Oh, good lord this is getting annoying. Of course, both of the technicians forgot to turn on the music, so here I am staring at the ceiling, alone with nothing but the beeps, thumps and my thoughts.

tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap

What was with those technicians in the beginning, though?Nobody smiles in this joint. Not my orthopedic surgeon, the nurses, these MRI technicians. Nobody. Is this place really that much of a downer? Everyone just needs to relax and have a Happy Meal. I should’ve totally pulled an Oprah for this appointment. Just handing out Happy Meals left and right until somebody smiled. “You get a Happy Meal! You get a Happy Meal! EVERYBODY GETS A HAPPY MEAL!!”

tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap

Ugh…how long am I going to be in here? I really feel like I have to move, but I’m afraid of the ice cold glare that the lead technician will surely give me if I disobey her orders.

“This one is going to be about three and a half minutes long. Try not to move!” Yes, ma’am drill sergeant!


I’m over this whole MRI thing. The only reason I had to come in was because the compartment pressure test that Dr. I’lljustgiveyouthistestrealquicksinceit’salmost5o’clock was negative, leaving me undiagnosed. I know I could’ve made my leg hurt more so that the pressure test sticking needles in my leg muscle would be more accurate, but I felt compelled to make it “hurt” as quickly as possible since the other doctor he sent in to watch me on the treadmill (because I’m sure my doctor had more important things to do than focus on patient care) kept asking every minute or so if it was time for me to stop yet.


I wonder what my orthopedic surgeon will say about the results of this thing. It’s taking long enough so I hope they’re getting good images. What if the tests show nothing’s wrong? I can’t have two negative tests; they’ll think I’m making everything up. My lower leg feels like it’s about to burst from the amount of pressure and pain I feel when I run and sometimes it and my foot go numb while running.

“This one’s going to be for 4 minutes. Try not to move! You’re doing such a great job!”

tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap

tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap

I should really stop complaining, but I hate not being able to run, not being able to get that endorphin rush after finishing a five mile run and not being able to train for the highest item on my bucket list: finish a marathon.

When my orthopedic surgeon told me I’d probably never be able to run a marathon, I broke down right then and there. “But I’m 22 years old! I should be able to!” I kept repeating it over and over to him. He suggested that I try biking, swimming or even rock climbing to be able to get the adrenaline rush back.

“But…but I’m 22 years old!” I kept saying to him. He looked sympathetic, but in the way guys who can’t handle crying look sympathetic. He was giving me a sad face on the outside, but inside I know he was like, “get me out of here, get me out of here, get me out of here.”

Instead, he told me I would have to take a DNS (did not start) for the Twin Cities Marathon that I had been training hard for the past 5 months. I knew watching my cousins and friends run it without me would make me fall apart inside.

And it did.


Of course those memories have to come flooding back now, when I’m in an MRI machine and can’t move. Maybe if I just bat away the tears, they’ll dry before this thing is over. I would totally be that girl that cries inside the MRI and they have to start all over. I’m a wreck.

tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap

I’ve got to stop feeling sorry for myself but, mainly, stop tearing up inside the MRI machine and get in charge of the situation. We’ll just have to wait and see what the test shows and when it’s all said and done, compartment syndrome or not, I’m going to run. I’ll just take it one day at a time. I’ve got to finish a marathon. Run the whole time or walk/run it. It doesn’t matter. It’s what I’ve wanted to do for the longest time and I’m not going to give up.

Now if only this test would hurry up and be over so I can go work on my new training plan. There’s no way I’m going to stop trying because someone says I can’t – medical degree or not.

“Okay, this one will be about two minutes. Just try to stay still!”

Not a chance, lady. Not a chance.