I had to share this with you guys. The office where I go into work has a relatively small elevator, with a relatively radical safety feature. Instead of advertising the maximum occupancy with a small sign or perhaps a simple number, this elevator has a weight-o-meter in it. You have a small bar of lights that wink green as more people pile in, but once that magical mystery threshold is reached, BAM! On comes the red beeping light of death. Do I know what the maximum weight is? Of course not! All I know is that if you’re the one to set off that alarm you were just decreed too fat for the elevator. Exit stage left, try the stairs.
I mean, I suppose that I shouldn’t be surprised I set it off the other day since I’m just another fat American. But let me put this little feature in perspective. In Argentina, physical beauty is highly prized and sought after. Employer health insurance policies often include once-yearly plastic surgery, free of charge. Yeah, companies figure a little rhinoplasty or a tuck here and there is part of your normal check-up routine. So in this land of highly modified and highly beautiful people, you have to figure that self-esteem is intrinsically linked to your weight. Cue the red light of death.
What genius thought that was a good idea? It’s like the elevator is laughing at your misfortune. If it just wouldn’t budge I think everyone would figure it out, but it has the whole lighting and beeping system just to remind everyone that they’re in the presence of an orca. They might as well have programmed that truck backing up noise into the elevator. One minute it’s green for go, the next klaxons are blaring. I’m just glad it has only happened to me once.
From now on I’m taking the stairs.
