On being that guy: Or, on inflicting First World Problems on others

Dear fellow residents of my building,

Yes, I'm the one who lives on the third floor, and yet insists on taking the elevator, thus substantially increasing the time it takes you to get to 34, 41, for all I know 503, this building is huge. My apartment is just two flights up, and there's a staircase right there. I know. My legs work just fine, and I've been known to exercise them intentionally on occasion, jogging on the waterfront outside.

Do I take the elevator out of spite, jealous of your superior views and the fact that you probably don't get awakened each morning by the construction? No - views I could take or leave, and something might as well get me up on time. (The Saturday drilling I could live without.)

No, I take the elevator because until September, I lived on the top floor of a walk-up. This did not merely mean lots of walking up ('a free workout', yes, but a miserable one after a full day of classes, teaching, grocery shopping, subway commuting), but also various DIY furniture-moving experiments that taught me that whatever it is I might have to offer the world, arm strength - or who am I kidding, physical strength, period - will not be involved.

So basically, I take the elevator because I can. Once the novelty wears off, I'll reconsider the stairs. But it's only November, people. Give it time.