My wife and I got stuck in an elevator and when we got home, we told the story to our kids.
They just looked at us and said.
“Soooo….. …did ya get out? “Soooo….. …did ya get out?”
My wife and I looked at each other and made a pact to go ahead and start drinking away their college fund.
So, here’s how it went down. My wife and I had just finished a lovely dinner at the new French bistro in town—nothing too fancy, just the kind of place where the waiter says, “Ah, Monsieur et Madame, excellent choice!” and we nod like we know what we’re doing.
We felt good, and I guess, in hindsight, that’s where we went wrong.
We decided to take the elevator up to the parking garage (because, you know, we’re classy like that). The doors closed, the elevator jerked a bit, and then—boom—we were stuck.
Not “stuck” in a gentle, “Oh, it’ll be over in 5 minutes” kind of way. No. We were in a death trap. Okay, maybe not a death trap, but definitely a “please don’t let this be the time the elevator chooses to finally give up on humanity” kind of situation.
At first, we were calm. I mean, it was a little cramped, sure, but we had good conversation. Well, I did. I tried to break the tension by telling a funny story about my office chair malfunctioning and how it gave me a five-minute workout. My wife wasn’t as impressed. I think she was too busy plotting ways to escape.
Meanwhile, we’re hitting the emergency button, the phone doesn’t work, and I can feel my pulse quicken, not from panic but from the deep realization that, if I don’t make this funny, I’ll never hear the end of it.
I was sweating. I tried talking about how we could become the next viral sensation—“Stuck in the Elevator for 4 Hours Challenge,” but my wife wasn’t having it. She just looked at me, her eyes narrowed like she was already drafting her “divorce” speech in her head.
Two hours passed, and it felt like we had been there for a lifetime. It was getting hot, like “Saharan desert hot.” The air was stale, and all we had were the crumbs from my sandwich that I had forgotten to finish earlier. I was ready to just lie down and start a new life in the elevator—become one with the walls, take on the name “Elevator Lou.”
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, we heard the magical sound of ding! The doors slid open, and it was like we had just been freed from the deepest pit of despair.
We got home, exhausted but relieved. We sat down at the dinner table, ready to share our traumatic tale with the kids. They were, of course, thrilled to hear it, leaning in with wide eyes. My wife and I took turns recounting our harrowing experience. And then, the moment of truth. My son, looking up from his cereal, casually asked, “Soooo…. did ya get out?”
My daughter, who was playing with her phone, barely looked up, muttering, “Soooo…. did ya get out?”
My wife and I stared at each other, processing the complete lack of sympathy. It hit us. This was the moment that our kids had grown too independent, too unaffected by our stories of survival. And in that moment, we both knew what had to be done.
We silently agreed: the college fund? Yeah, it was gone. We were going to start drinking it away, one bottle at a time. You know, in case they didn’t appreciate the struggle of their parents anymore, they sure would appreciate the drinks at their wedding… when they’re 40.
