#I let out the loudest scream I swear I’m probably getting a noise complaint

[ocdhuacheng]

I’m shaking my cat actually just almost fell out a 3 story window I’m genuinely still feeling the fear from that I can’t believe that almost happened

[sauvmyproblems-blog]

FIFTEEN | LOCKED IN

HI! REMEMBER ME?! HOW ARE YOU??? Can you believe that Donald Trump is going to be our president??? UGH.

I’m so sorry that I haven’t posted in one million days. Seriously. It’s unacceptable and I’m ashamed of myself. For the record, I have 4 stories started but I’ve been suffering from severe writer’s block. Apparently, it really is a thing that can happen to even the most mediocre of bloggers!

In addition to my official/medical writer’s block diagnosis, I have other excuses to offer up. I’ve conclusively become two things: busy and lazy. I recognize that these two adjectives shouldn’t traditionally go together…yet I am living and breathing proof that this oxymoron is possible.

I strangely find myself having plans almost every single night of the workweek. Trust me, I’m not bragging; it’s not easy being this popular and socially relevant. Instead of staying in to write / exercise my "creativity", I’ve been hitting up ALL of the bars. And ALL of the restaurants. And ALL of the work outings. And ALL of the J. Crews. And ALL of the friends’ apartments where alcohol is served. Thus, demonstrating the busy component.

The later I stay out, the greater the likelihood is that I will take a cab home. And of course the chances of me being hungover in the morning grows exponentially. Like you guys, I’ve discovered that my new baseline is just my old self except 20% more nauseous and bloated than I used to be. Since I’m staying out passed my bedtime, I get little-to-no sleep and thus have a challenging time waking up in the morning. Which also means I’ve been wearing Leggings As Pants (LAP) which is NOT A PRETTY SIGHT for someone who has been doing nothing but consuming calories 24 hours a day. That’s the lazy part.

Also, since I have your attention, I’d also like issue one more formal complaint: this newfound lifestyle has made me broke as shit. I swear on your life, my eyes filled with tears the other morning when I realized I had $34 in my bank account. LITERALLY THIRTY-FOUR DOLLARS. WHO HAVE I BECOME? I HATE MYSELF.

Hold on a sec. I’M ACTUALLY STRESS-SWEATING. I need a minute to regain my composure.

K. Back.

Anyway… a few weeks ago, I decided my life needed to change. No more bullshit. It’s time to be a responsible human being. I promised myself that I was going to wake up early that Saturday morning and really adult. I was going to do laundry and exercise my disgusting body and clean my disgusting apartment. I was going to put my shoes in my closet and hang up all of the coats that were draped over my couch.

Since I still don’t have blinds in my apartment, I woke up with the ~sunrise~ around 7:00AM, which sounds kind of ~romantic~ until I inform you that I’m not wearing pants in this flashback. And I’m alone watching said sunrise. Yep. Just me, myself and the teardrops on my guitar.

I did what any other 28-year old adult would do: put on the Spotify playlist “The Best of Kelly Clarkson” and ate 3 bowls of Special K while standing over my sink. I made a couple cups of Starbucks coffee in my ghetto-ass Keurig machine. I moved all of my shoes from my hallway to shoe rack that is literally just a mangled piece of Bed, Bath and Beyond plastic – but hey, we can’t win them all. I Swiffered the living hell out of my 452-square foot apartment. I EVEN USED PLEDGE ON MY RAYMOUR & FLANAGAN MEDIA WALL UNIT. I am trying to use a lot of product placement in this paragraph, but now I’m not sure if it’s funny. I digress.

You get it. So far so good with this whole adulting thing. I pat myself on the back, which is a lie because I HATE BEING PATTED ON THE BACK. Seriously. If you ever pat me on the back when we’re hugging, I’m going to be offended and consider unfollowing you on social media.

Next up comes the laundry.

Laundry is something that I don’t mind doing, but there are a few quick things I need to tell you to help you get a visual:

1. I always, 100% of the time, have 25 OR MORE pounds of clothing to wash on Laundry Day. And I take reusable tote bags that you get from TJ Maxx to bring said clothing down to the basement of my building, where the laundry room lives. 2. I usually need to use 4 of these bags to lug my laundry downstairs. 3. I always, 100% of the time, have enough black clothing to do a “blacks only” load, which sounds really questionable but is meant with the upmost respect. New Yorkers wear a TON OF BLACK. I love black. And the new black heart emoji.

Now that we are aligned, let’s get back to the story.

After all my clothes are done in the dryer, I shove them back in my $0.99 tote bags and drag them back up to my apartment. Since my arms are full of clean garments, I body-check my door open and then karate-kick it closed behind me. I am oftentimes unaware of my strength -- and the door literally SLAMS SO INCREDIBLY HARD. It makes an abnormally loud noise.

I dump all 94 lbs of clothing on my bed and go back to the door to lock it behind me, because murderers.

But…I notice that the metal around the doorknob has become lose, probably from my Power Ranger-style kick.

And now the door won’t re-open. Chuckling, I give myself a minute to regain my composure, and pull on it again.

The door does not open.

Hmmm. This can’t ACTUALLY be happening, can it? There is no way I’m trapped in my own apartment.

I take a deep breath and reposition my stance. I pull as hard as I possibly can on this god damn door.

It does not open.

I look around to see if Ashton Kutcher snuck into my apartment while I wasn’t looking – I’m definitely being Punked. THERE IS NO WAY THAT I’M TRAPPED IN MY OWN HOME.

I’m now doing that thing from the movies where my foot is on the wall to brace myself, and I am literally PULLING with all of my being on this fucking door.

It does not open.

Maybe my hands are just sweaty? Yeah, that’s gotta be it. I put on oven mitts because of the grippy part. And I pull as hard as I can.

It does not open.

As the terror slowly begins to sink in, I do what any other person would do in this situation – call their doorman for back-up. I tell him that I can’t seem to open my door, and ask him to bring up the spare key to see if he can open it from the outside.

The following video is actual evidence taken from the moment that my dear Tony comes to assess the situation. [Director’s note: please observe the shoe marks to the right of the doorknob from where my foot was.]

You heard it with your own two ears, people; Tony confirmed it.

I’m fucking locked INSIDE my studio apartment.

“This can’t be happening”, I say aloud. “On the ONE day that I actually was going to get shit done.”

While Tony is calling the locksmith, I begin to wonder what life would be like if the door just never opened again. “Maybe I can make a ladder out of sheets and lower myself the 9 stories to the street,” I think in my brain. I then remember that I broke my pelvis from running up a HILL, so the chances of me surviving the descent are slim-to-none. I wonder how long it would take me to build up enough body mass to knock down the door. I dig through my junk drawer to look for any secret tools I may have forgotten about. What if the fire department has to come and scoop me out of my window like a cat stuck in a tree? I can see it now… “FDNY RESCUES SLIGHTLY OVERWEIGHT MILLENNIAL FROM 9th FLOOR MANHATTAN APARTMENT DUE TO STUCK DOOR.” Oh my god. THAT WOULD BE SOCIAL SUICIDE. Actually, maybe I could finally fulfill my dream of being on Ellen.

I can barely get deep in this stress-fantasy before there is a knock on my broken door; Joe, the locksmith, has come to rescue me.

Within the first 10 minutes, he pops out the doorknob and somehow, magically, is able to get the door open. THIS IS SO GREAT. All he has to do now is pop the doorknob back in and he can get on his merry way. And I can continue on with the promise I made to myself for being productive on this Saturday. I CAN STILL SAVE THE DAY. CARPE GOD DAMN DIEM, Y’ALL.

But of course, this is me we’re talking about. Shit can never be that easy.

Joe comes into my apartment wearing gym clothes and lets me know that this emergency totally interrupted his workout. At the very second I start to feel guilty for ruining this guy’s weekend, I realize that he is a GUM SNAPPER. He is smacking on that piece of Trident like it’s his last day on earth. Like he was trying to win the World’s Loudest Gum Chewer contest. I start to feel less bad for him and more sorry for my eardrums.

Anyway, Chompy Joe makes a full assessment of my door, muttering to himself about the various parts that he’ll need to back to “the truck” and get. He starts to ask me a lot questions about the innards of my door’s lock system – do I know which way the bolt was installed, have I ever replaced the trigger, etc. I want to scream YOU ARE TALKING TO A PERSON WHO LOCKED HERSELF IN HER ACTUAL APARTMENT but instead I politely shrug and tell him I’ll be no help.

Joe and his gum go back to “The Truck” and reappear a half hour later – he begins drilling and hammering and screwing and chewing boisterously. I don’t want to seem like a helicopter parent, so I begin folding the skyscraper of clothing that’s atop my bed. After 15 or so minutes, Joe calls out to me that he’s fixed the door. WOW. THAT WAS FAST. WHAT A PRODIGY.

I run over to him, which is a lie because you can’t run in my apartment because it is so small. He confidently attempts to walk me through the steps he took to replace the lock. Except when it comes time for him to demonstrate his success, we discover that he DID NOT FIX the lock. And thus begins the real emotional turmoil / the below hellacious cycle:

1. Joe mutters to himself while futzing around with my locks. That sounds sexual. It is not sexual. 2. Joe lets me know that he finally has discovered what the problem is, and heads back out to “The Truck” to get more necessary parts. 3. After 30 minutes or so of truck rummaging, Joe returns to the scene of the crime and begins playing around with the door. 4. After 10 more minutes, Joe calls back out to me that the locks are repaired. 5. Joe tries to show me that my door is fixed. 6. The door is still not fixed. 6.5 The locks are still broken. 7. See step 1. 8. Repeat.

THIS PROCESS RECURS A TOTAL OF FOUR TIMES. Since I know nothing about locksmith-ery so I TRY give Joe the benefit of the doubt. Luckily, I had no formal plans that day so I had time to devote to this stupid circumstance.

Since it doesn’t take 3 hours to fold laundry, I begin to struggle to pass the time while Joe is pretending to know what he’s doing working very diligently. I organize my dresser. I clean out my refrigerator. I put all my dishes away. I cure the common cold.

Finally, I hear a familiar sound - a CLICK in the door in tandem with a positive cheer come from Joe. “I really fixed it this time, Sara. Come look.” Joe closes the door. He tests both locks. Pulls on the door when it’s locked. IT’S FIXED. IT’S REALLY FIXED, ISN’T IT?!

Clearly pleased with himself, Joe begins to pack up his tools in his little locksmith bag. He hands me the bill and lets me know that I can call to tell him my credit card number over the phone so I don’t need to go with him to The Truck. I sign some forms, give Joe a heart-felt thank you, and wave as he turns towards the door leave. He turns both locks to free himself from my apartment.

But the door doesn’t open.

Joe pulls as hard as he can on the doorknob, clearly shaking it with all of his might.

I burst into laughter – OH JOE! My little trickster! It’s so funny that we’re on the level where you feel so comfortable playing such a silly joke on me. You devil!

Then, there is a long pause.

Joe slowly turns back and looks at me square in the eyes. He stares into the depths of my soul. I watch the energy literally drain out of his body, as his shoulders slump over.

He doesn’t even need to say a word. I already know that he’s not joking.

We are now BOTH stuck inside my apartment.

The panic really starts to set in. How THE HELL DID THIS HAPPEN. HOW ARE WE GOING TO GET OUT. Are there any other Joes out there that can come rescue us? God, I hope they aren't chompers. WAIT. I DON’T KNOW IF I HAVE ENOUGH CANNED GOODS FOR TWO HUMANS TO SURVIVE. I only have 4 boxes of cereal which is DEFINITELY only enough for me. WHAT AM I GOING TO DO. Do I need to marry Joe now? He's not really my type. Ugh, okay fine. I’ll do it if he closes his mouth.

Luckily, that doesn’t need to happen because Joe still had the DRILL with him. He proceeds to SHAVE DOWN the top of my door in order to free us. So creative. He busts the top lock out and as the minutes turned to more minutes – we were finally free.

Given the extensive injuries that my poor door and lock endured, and the emotional scarring that Joe will now have, I am handed an updated $275 bill…

…which I immediately send to the owner of my apartment to deal with for having the world’s crappiest door of all time. I COULD HAVE DIED IN THERE.

Needless to say, I opened a bottle of Sauv before the sun even thought about setting that day. It made everything better.

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, I wonder what Joe and his gum are up to. Has he changed up his flavors? Did he ever finish that workout? Did someone teach him that society prefers that humans chew with their mouths closed?

And I wonder if he ever thinks of me.

Joe, if you’re reading this – thanks for the memories. LYLAL (Luv Ya Like A Locksmith.)

#SauvMyProblems