There’s nothing more intoxicating for kids than an elevator ride. Pressing buttons, freaking out, the range of emotions expressed during a short ride between floors is cause for drunken celebration, whacked-out posture, even inebriated fear. They live for this sh*t.
Recently returned from Bermuda, ferried by the ridiculously well-appointed Norwegian Breakaway, we endured 16 decks of elevator Bacchanalia. Now think about this. Think about the uneasiness of close quarters with strangers–that staple of elevator travel–then add kids, those wildcard assassins of etiquette. Witness.
My daughter pulls off some Kurt Thomas sh*t, reverse-grasping the gymnastic mini bar, legs suspended, white bow unperturbed. The boy succumbs to elevator music, conducting a wicked Bernstein symphony…
Home now, back to real life, I shuttle my 3 delinquents to an eye appointment, which, wouldn’t you know it, requires an elevator ride. There’s a brief tussle as to who gets to press the button, 4th floor. The doors close. Inside the air seems deliriously thin. Just then it’s as if they’re intravenously receiving massive amounts of Red Bull, careening off the walls, screeching like banshees. There’s no bringing them down. By the time we reach the 4th floor they’ve transformed into frenzied devil worshippers.
Until the next elevator ride I’m taking it all in like a sitcom.