Taking The Stairs

I have been long-thinking about a particular habit that has recently, within the last month or so, formed in my daily undertakings. You know how habits form, right? If I am correct in saying so, twenty-one days of a consistent activity usually solidifies that particular nuance as a characteristic of your lifestyle (i.e. a disposition, inclination, proclivity... you get the picture). Many times, we realize little what our tendencies are until someone else or our own selves our altered, in a way, by their presence.

It started intentionally, I will admit, as a matter of personal gain and plain common sense. Too often, I found myself standing between two doors, with the most appealing one opening up to a pleasingly safe, convenient, and fashionably carpeted box that could (and would) effortlessly, atleast on my part, take me to any level of my choosing-even if only to the next floor. The other entrance opened up to stack upon stack of tiled flooring that otherwise dull the sweating faces of anyone venturing to walk through that door.

It goes without saying, that previously, a few moments of waiting for those glimmering metal doors to part and carry me on my way seemed well worth my time. Take the stairs? Why challenge myself to do something when the easiest way is an option? Laziness and convenience, fear of a challenge: each of these things prompting me to make a choice ultimately in favor of no one but the electric company running the ingenious thing.

And that is when things changed. I stood one morning, waiting with a small group of people to take the easy way up when it occurred to me that maybe something else aside from a shortness of breath was waiting on the other side of the door to my right, you know, the hard way up. And so I did it, much like I had done an occasional time or two before. This particular trip, however, I took stair after stair, passing by the next door which was my chosen destination, and the next, and the next, until I could go no further and had reached the top.

I walked through the door and turned to my right to watch the blinking lights on the wall above me indicate the current location of my usual mode of transportation. It stuck for awhile on the second level, giving me time to think, to wonder, to try and understand what had just happened. In some strange way, it felt like a victory-over what, I do not know, but nonetheless, it felt good. I walked back through the door and down the stairs and with each step, further resolved myself to taking the stairs anytime there was an option.

And I have.

I cannot say, though, that there has not been a sprinkling of days where I lapse, and against my better judgment, take the elevator. But I am consistently taking the stairs, so much so that I now found pleasure in taking them by twos and finding at the end of my climb, I am more energized and better suited for, well, living.

It feels fuller, you know, working at something and challenging yourself when faced with the opportunity to choose between what is easy and what is hard. I like that feeling, both literally...

and figuratively.