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Even if you're freefalling, at least you can update your Facebook status.

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On Monday morning, I stood in a hotel elevator with five strangers, hands gripping the railing. At any moment, we might have freefell.

my sister drinking a frappuchino from Starbucks in an elevator

my sister drinking a frappuchino from Starbucks in a hotel elevator

Down at least twelve floors. Down only twelve floors. And secretly, I prayed that we might be stuck in that encased glass room for more than the five or ten minutes it took to get us out.

I am not claustrophobic. I’ve squeezed myself into tight quarters during games of hide-and-seek. Held my breath under a bar countertop and inside linen closets. I’ve suppressed bouts of giggles rather than panic attacks. But I do not like getting stuck in elevators.

This time, though, I thought it might be a learning experience.

When you’re surrounded on all sides by five strangers who are trying their best to grin and bear it, despite the overwhelming urge to panic, you try to see it as a teachable moment. I thought, for some ridiculous reason, we might be friends.

Walk out of the other side with a newfound appreciation for our lives.

You always hear about the people who spent a day or a week or a month trapped somewhere and emerge on the other side of the experience with a glow about them. They walk a little lighter, smile a little bigger and laugh a little louder. It changes their whole life.

I stood in that elevator and waited for my very own life-changing experience. Squeezed the railing until my hands turned white. And all the while, I felt calm.

When we jolted downward for a split second, my knees gave out. But in my head, all I could keep thinking was this:

I’m in Elevator K. Is that significant? What if we’re stuck here for an hour? Oh well, I’ve got two hours to kill.

Oh, well? Oh well.

I think it was a lesson in patience and handling chaos. I don’t walk; I pace. I don’t talk; I ramble.

Don’t all of us? Don’t we start pushing buttons and raising our voices and banging on the hard glass? We whip out our Blackberry or iPhone and start sending e-mails.

“Might be late for that meeting, Bill. I’m stuck in an elevator.”

“Can’t get a Starbucks coffee with you, Emily. I’m wedged somewhere between the 11th and 12th floor of the Marriott Marquis in Times Square.”

There’s still service in a broken elevator. Even if you’re freefalling, at least you can update your Facebook status.

Maybe there shouldn’t be. Maybe we should all be sitting around chatting about existentialism or the apocalypse or What This Really Means for Us. Maybe God’s angry that we’ve turned Sunday into just another workday.

Slow down. Grab the railing. And breathe.

Little Ones in the Big City: lessons on the NJ Transit.

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I might be the only person left on this Earth who still loves the silly little state of New Jersey.

via weheartit.com

It’s nestled snugly between the big guys: Pennsylvania & New York. Tucked away in a secluded corner of the nation where every other state boasts of its population of people with high endeavors or its major national landmarks and attractions. Why does anyone travel to New Jersey? Surely not for the tourist attractions.

Perhaps we have Snooki and The Situation to thank for this predicament, but it’s my understanding that this is a longstanding feeling held by the general surrounding area’s population. It’s the dark horse of the mid-Atlantic. And I’m upset about it.

I’m sitting in a Starbuck’s sipping a hot tea and chatting with a good friend when it happens.

“Why does everyone always hate on New Jersey?” I asked. “Even people from Southern Virginia hate it. I don’t get it.”

My friend shakes his head and laughs before attempting to explain his repulsion to me. But all I hear is his unwillingness to give it a chance.

I love New Jersey because it’s straightforward and quaint. I grew up jealous of my parents who both called the place home for 18 years. I wanted to walk down the street to the A&P or the ShopRite. I wanted to wander past houses of all shapes and sizes lining the streets named for local politicians. Wanted to drive through jug handles and roundabouts and take the train into the city.

With New Jersey, what you see is what you get. And perhaps that’s why I’m jealous of it. How can something be so sure of itself when it’s surrounded by people who only perpetually feed it with criticism and disgust? When the first word that slips from someone’s tongue to describe it is ‘inadequate’?

I keep thinking of the image of a little girl in a pea coat in the middle of New York City. Her cheeks are kissed pink from the cold air but she’s smiling, her parents each tugging one hand. She’s happy. And maybe that’s New Jersey.

Content being the little one in the big city.

Being the big guy seems enticing but terrifying. And maybe, on the most basic level, New Jersey’s got that figured out.