Climb to the top

Well, halfway at least. The bright guys in the condo decided to shut off the lifts because they needed to fix the cables. Or something. I don't know. Why they didn't bother waiting till dawn or till when everyone's gone up is beyond me. Instead of evacuating to Alabang, I resorted to climbing all the way up. All 32 flights of it. There I was lugging my huge Prada doctor's bag in a dimly lit and narrow stairwell. The steps were so tiny they were probably made with a baby in mind. It was then I regretted bringing home a bunch of magazines that I wanted to read through to get ideas for our clients. In my bag was also a really heavy Macbook and one of those heavy duty lunch boxes that becomes impossible to open when super hot food is put in it and sealed without cooling the content. When I got to my floor, my thighs hurt like anything. I had never exerted so much effort on them since... Since... Since... I attempted to use the stairmaster in the gym two years ago. Or maybe it was waaay before that. Walking up was like being in an Alfred Hitchcock film. Dark, lone climber with only the sound of my (panting) breathing and the tap of my shoes with every step I'd make, echoing in the humid stairwell. I had the Psycho theme playing in my mind the entire time. What freaked me out the most was when I looked up at one point, this guard suddenly turned on his flashlight and guided me up. I probably would have lost it if he pointed it upwards to his face and gave me a I'm-clinically-insane-and-I'm-going-to-eat-you-now look. An hour ago, Gibbs told me I lost more weight compared to the last time he saw me two or three months ago. Now because of that really tiring climb, I probably must be waif now.