Push Your Own Damn Elevator Button

Message to the ladies who shared the elevator with me after lunch today.

Just because you are old (and really, not that old ladies . . . you were both about 60 . . . seriously), does not mean you are entitled to have your elevator buttons pushed for you. Does making it "over the hill" allow you to boss younger people around on a whim? I think not.

Here's what happened. After lunch, I returned to my office building. I waited for a few moments for the elevator with two older women. The elevator arrived and I stepped in, pushed my floor button and stepped to the back of the elevator. The two ladies, who were in the middle of a conversation they started while meandering back to their office, slowly made their way into the elevator. They firmly planted themselves next to me at the back of the elevator without pushing their floor button.

The doors closed and the elevator began moving. I know these women do not work on my floor and wondered silently whether they were going to remember where they were and where they were going. Not my problem, I thought. I have enough crazy in my life without worrying about the mysterious workings of the semi-senile.

All of a sudden, one lady popped up with, "OH! Could you push 9 for us?"

Are you kidding me? Are your arms broken? What makes you think you deserve to tell other people to push your elevator buttons - your advanced age? Reaching the ripe old age of 60 might entitle you to retirement in some professions, a free meal in some restaurants, and discounted movie tickets, but it does not entitle you to order other adults to perform menial tasks for you at the drop of a hat.

But I didn't say any of this (not because I was overtaken by niceness but because I work in the same building with these women and future awkward moments on the elevators should be averted) and just stepped forward and pushed 9. I must have rolled my eyes a little bit or looked slightly put-out because the two old ladies giggled and said, rather lamely, "Oh, I guess we could have pushed it ourselves."

This bothered me almost as much as the men (mostly older men) who get onto an elevator first and block the buttons from women and ask each one "Which floor?" Seriously, I can push my own god damn elevator buttons. Just because I have a vagina does not mean I am incapable of pushing the button that takes me to my office. Where I work. As a professional. (The office/work/professional thing is what these guys can't wrap their 1962 minds around.) I mean, after all, I did manage to get myself dressed this morning and drive that fancy automobile to the new-fangled parking lot. How incompetent could I be?

Some of the chivalrous things left over from decades ago really irk me. Here is a message to all men. If you get to the door first, hold it open for me. Just like I will hold it open for you if I get there first. But really, you don't have to walk on the outside of the sidewalk to protect me from the traffic. You don't have to open the car door for me. And don't offer to carry my suitcase for me. I packed the thing, let me carry it. And really, don't offer me your coat. I should have remembered to wear one. Or maybe I might just be comfortable without a coat. And never, ever offer to pump gas for me.

There are exceptions, of course. (This is the part that drives men crazy). Perhaps my arms are broken. Then pushing the buttons or opening the car door or pumping gas is a really nice thing to do. Or perhaps I am carrying two children and all of their crap and can't quite get my suitcase with the one free pinky finger I have. Or perhaps I brought a coat but one of those children peed on it. Then it might be OK to offer me your coat.

It's just that simple . . . .