What is it about life’s cruel sense of humor that gets off on conspiring to make others move slower so as to blockade you when you’re in a hurry? Getting trapped on a “local” elevator is just one such prime way in which the universe loves to fuck with your already hellacious commute to the office.
Usually, you arrive in the lobby breathless, frantic even, that your boss or one of your many other superiors has gotten there before you–and all because you pulled a Gwyneth Paltrow in Sliding Doors and missed the first train that breezed past you. The other office workers you ordinarily choose not to acknowledge because you hate them as much as you hate yourself for surrendering their balls to the man are rubbing up against you in addition to pressing their grubby, subway-poled hands on every button. Ten minutes later you arrive on your floor, eleven minutes later than you should have as a result of missing your train by one minute.