I like our apartment. I really do. The construction people updating the exteriors have been inconsiderate, slow, and aggravating, but the management has been very nice whenever I’ve complained. However, I may end up sending yet another complaint their way - even though the construction has pretty much moved on beyond our building. On Wednesday, full of joy over the day’s events and not full of remembering to watch Smallville (d’OH!), I walked up to our door laden with baggages, packages, and paraphenalia, as well as my Wednesday comic books. Our door smelled of paint, and was no longer blotchy. Yet more cause for joy! I unlocked the door and pushed. It held firm. Perhaps it had been unlocked, and I had just locked it. Ker-clack, heave! No go. I dropped all my stuff and clack-heaved for a few minutes until Matt pulled it open from the inside. They had painted our door shut.

So the next day I rush through my morning routine, run for the door with all my stuff…and it won’t open. After a cold night left alone, it’s even stiffer. Matt is in the shower, and I can’t get out. It was really astonishing. It’s not like I LIKE going to work - not the going, not the work!—but being unable to leave is really rather frightening! I tried bracing myself on the corner of the wall, I pulled until my hands were aching and my back and knees were making ominous popping sounds. Finally, bawling like a 6-year-old, I got Matt to de-soap and open the door with manly strength and bad grace.

Being trapped is a very odd feeling. It’s humiliating, and robs you of your feeling of power. I mean, it was my own apartment, I wasn’t in any danger, and I cried like a child. Scary.