You know what I hate?

My house.
My house.


Oh, I used to like stairs. When I was just a small ball of dough, not the over-risen loaf I am now, my brother and I used to play a favorite game on the stairs.

He’d stand at the top by the kitchen and I’d take the bottom by the rec-room and utility room. I’d run back and forth between them while he tried to pick me off with yarn balls we stole from our mother’s knitting basket.

I would dodge as best I could, then return fire. We’d carry on until Mom yelled at us. Then there ensued a mad scramble for the balls of yarn, which we would then hide in order to launch an ambush later. Well, after Mom cooled down that is.

Ah, when I was young I’d take the stairs three at a time. As I got older, I found that by wedging my arms against the walls a third of the way down to the basement, I could jump the rest without touching a single stair!

Now, I lurch down the stairs trying not to stumble because I can’t really see what I’m doing. On the way up, I huff and puff, arriving at the top—usually—with my face flushed and my brow dripping like a thanksgiving turkey.

As it happens, my house is littered with stairs. My bedroom and library are on the uppermost floor. My office is in the basement. The dungeon where I carry out fiendish experiments on cabbages, is below that, down a winding stone staircase…uh, strike that.

I think I’ve said too much.

Needless to say, going anywhere at home requires me to bring along a team of Sherpas, and keep a med-evac helicopter on standby. As if this were not enough pain and suffering, age has seen to it that I have very little short-term memory—which works out pretty well, since I have no long-term memory either. Anyway, this means that I frequently climb the stairs on a mission, only to return from whence I came having completely failed to remember why I did it in the first place.

Let me give you an illustration:

Today I left my desk—in the basement—went upstairs to my bedroom to retrieve my cell phone, which was charging innocently on the nightstand. On my way, I noticed something that belonged upstairs and grabbed it to bring with me. I put that thing away and went back down to my desk, without my phone. When I realized my folly, I sighed resignedly and started out again. I climbed the stairs, muttering under my breath the whole way, got to my room, forgot why I was there, and went back downstairs.

On my way, I stopped for a can of soda, being thirsty and dehydrated from my exertions. Arriving once more at my desk, I sat down, took a swig from the can and swore. Loudly. After peeling the cat from the ceiling, I trudged back upstairs, this time, retrieving my phone as intended. I failed to plug it in properly so it hadn’t charged.

Here I sit relating my misery to you, but the effort of typing has proven too much for me. I think I need a nap and a defibrillator.

When Dad was in his final illness, we got him a stair-lift. Mom still uses it. I gotta tell ya, it looks pretty damn good to me. A Hoveround can’t be too far off in my future.

I hate stairs.

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