Midtown Girl

Boarding an elevator in New York is like trying to get into the Crillon Ball.







If there is one thing I've over-indulged in throughout my time in the City, it is observation. I'm a self-proclaimed glutton. I notice all the small things. Sometimes it is at the expense of missing the big picture, or the bus headed towards me. But I notice the lucky pennies, the makeshift gardens, the names carved into the Brooklyn Bridge, and the "door close" button rubbed raw on elevators.





The "door open" button, due to its seemingly virginal appearance, is unexplored territory. Threatening to those who fear the unknown, question dark spaces, and search for a crutch when pushed out of the nest.

I will admit, elevator rides are chronically awkward. For those days when you are packed into a freight elevator like sardines, you watch the floor as if it is a Broadway show, and long for a solo ride in which your nose isn't pressed into the delivery boy's armpit.

For those who shut the doors on others, deeming themselves worthy of a ride in solitude, there is something prestigious and magical about elevators. The carriage rises up the spine of the building and drops them off into an unknown abyss. People see them get on, but where they escape to is a mystery.

Riding alone to the top affords those who do the notion of importance. Like walking in glass slippers. You can't very well walk up stairs in glass slippers. Alas your carriage awaits you, and only you. It lowers to cradle you and your fragile shoes high into the sky into a land of make-believe.

You have reached the ball on the penthouse floor, in you fabulous shoes nonetheless, but at the expense of what?

Just like Cinderella couldn't have finished her chores and made it to the ball without the help of mice, designers couldn't make it to Bryant Park, let alone the showroom floor, without the vermin that are interns. We haul samples, swatches, and patterns around the city like mice with crumbs. We lurk in the corners when fabulous people arrive, as if we don't exist.

But those unfortunate things, coupled with freight elevators, and running errands in the rain, make seeing a garment you had a hand in on Style.com worth every pin you picked up, every armpit you had your nose in, and seam you ripped.

Cinderella enjoyed the ball more, because she worked to get there. She scrubbed the floor on her hands an knees. She appreciated the pumpkin transforming into a carriage. She didn't expect it, or deem herself worthy of it.

But just like Cinderella, your magical carriage, that is your elevator, turns back into a pumpkin at midnight, and your glass slippers suddenly become impractical and debilitating.

Think about all you are missing when you choose an elevator ride in solitude. You miss the laughs on the way up, the meaningless conversation that turns into a life-long friendship. You miss the opportunity to be the first finger to grace the "Open Door" button.

Instead you are choosing solitary confinement. All you are missing are padded walls and you've got yourself an asylum.

People always wonder why it is so lonely at the top. Because you choose the "close door" option. You wouldn't share the ride with anyone else. You let mice help you do your chores, but when it came time for the ball they were nothing more than an infestation.


Cinderella shared her experience with the mice that helped get her there. Granted, if memory serves me correct, mice were merely horses that drew her carriage, but at least she wasn't ashamed of her help.

That infamous night Cinderella didn't ride alone.

Clearly Cinderella was doing something right-She ended up with Prince Charming and killer shoes.