What Doesn't Kill You, Only Makes You Stronger

As a runner, I've learned to hold my breath when a stinky situation arises, typically prompted by ignorant smokers who blow smoke directly into your nasal passages, toxic bus fumes, and the occasional jackass with pit stains down to his ankles that insists on running at 9.9 on the treadmill beside you.

There are worse dilemmas of the odoriferous type, however, as I crudely discovered the other day. I'd just returned from a jog, all hot and sweaty and not in the mood to be bothered with. As I impatiently waited for the slow elevator to reach floor one, I grabbed my mail which consisted of the worthless monthly magazine from the gym. Lo and behold, when the elevator doors finally opened, Elmer Fudd and his overweight dachshund exited, shuffling at the pace of a death row inmate.

Elmer Fudd moved in about a month ago, earning the title of "creepiest old man" in my apartment building, successfully edging out the googly-eyed, unemployed guy with the junkyard car. My building is essentially a dorm for spoiled kids whose parents pay their rent and young, single working professionals taking advantage of the subsidized housing. If you're an old resident, you're probably a weirdo and inevitably, stick out like a sore thumb. Elmer Fudd is middle-aged, short and stocky, and stares you down like nobody's business. He looks like a world class pervert. It would be within reason to assume he uses his weiner dog for more than a friendly game of tug-o-war.

Had I not been so eager to jump into a cold shower, I may have noticed the foul odor before the elevator doors closed, sentencing me to the gas chamber. Never have I been subjected to anything so vile in my life. To say it was "rotten" would be an understatement. How it is humanly possible (not to mention NORMAL) to emit that much gas in the time it takes an elevator to descend two floors, I shall never know. Was it the dog? I can't rule it out completely. But I'm convinced otherwise.

Now I've passed out many places before -- cab rides, bar stools, random stranger's beds, but an elevator would be a first. In my head, I began composing goodbye letters to family and friends. Near the brink of defeat, I flipped open my Lifetime Experience magazine (at least it's good for one thing) to an article explaining how unwashed cucumbers only last for a week in your refrigerator before spoiling (good to know). I then took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the clean smell of fresh print. How relieved I was to inhale air that didn't reek like ass, you'll never know. I kept my nose buried in the magazine until the doors opened and I was no longer held prisoner against my will.