Trapped

The evening of Wednesday, June 15, 2011 was shaping up to be, in one word, unremarkable. I returned home from a run in the sweltering June heat with the intention of eating 6-10 Otter Pops to help regulate my core temperature, and was looking forward to catching up on some stimulating, educational television (READ: Modern Family and Next Food Network Star). What a nice, quiet evening at home, I thought, as I wiggled out of my sweaty t-shirt and snipped the top off of a Louie-Bloo Raspberry. I took the commercial break following a particularly cutthroat kitchen challenge to step onto the balcony to water my flower pot, and that’s when my quiet evening at home turned into an urban rendition of 127 Hours.

I was so busy telling my flowers how proud I was of them for (finally) growing and flourishing that I didn’t hear the door click shut behind me. I turned to go back inside, anxious to watch the judging panel reduce the emotionally-unstable blonde chef to a blubbering ball of tears, and that’s when I realized that I had been locked out. Relax, I thought. I’ll go in through the bedroom, fully aware that I keep my bedroom door locked at all times to ward off predators. Both doors leading back inside were LOCKED. And that’s when it sank in that I was in my jog bra, trapped seven stories up, on a balcony roughly the size of baby’s playpen.

My first reaction was to laugh at myself, quietly at first and then heartily. I truly am Amelia Bedelia in the flesh! Wait’ll the girls get a load of this! It was only when I stopped laughing to seriously consider how I was going to get back inside that the severity of the situation settled in. Following is my exact train of thought:

“Oh, I’ll just call someone”. (Phone was inside.)

“Okkk, I’ll just wait for Michelle to get home and let me in.” (Michelle was obliviously crooning away at Mumford & Sons, and wouldn’t be home until morning.)

“Ugh, I didn’t want to have to do this, but I’ll just pop over to the neighbor’s balcony and tap tap tap on his door.” (Pretty certain the neighbor uses his condo as a second home and likely wouldn’t be returning for months.)

“Fuck it, I’ll just break the glass and let myself in.” (With what, you idiot, your bare hands? Did you wanna wrap them in your jog bra first? You’ll surely bleed to death on your own balcony. Not an ideal way to go.)

At this point, panic rose in my throat like an unstoppable rebel force. I AM TOAST!!! But wait – hadn’t I watched enough Man vs. Wild to get me through this? It’s not like I was in the Sahara; I was on my own, lovely patio! THINK, DAMNIT. But it kind of felt like the Sahara – that unforgiving summer sun beating down mercilessly on my scantily-clad bod. God it’s hot. A nice shower from my watering can would sure be a good morale booster; I cursed myself for having wasted all the water on my plants. I hope you’re happy, you good for nothing – NO. Don’t turn on them. They’re all you’ve got and you may end up having to eat them soon. I paced frantically between the two doors, violently shaking the handles. I was struck by the irony of hoping that one of the locks I had grown to rely on might be faulty. And then there was the momentary consideration of launching myself onto the patio below, but I knew that was just the heat talking, and I sat down on my chair to compose myself.

As the sun began to set over the Rocky Mountains to the west, it got very quiet, and a sense of peaceful helplessness replaced the frenzied terror I had been choking on. I slumped over the railing, watching cars drive by in the distance, thinking how beautiful the city looks at that time of night, vaguely aware of the occasional gun shot in the bail bond district a couple blocks away. Sleeping out here wouldn’t so bad, I thought, pondering the absurdity of doing so while staring at my bed 3 feet away on the other side of the door.

I heard them before I saw them: VOICES, and not just the ones in my head for once. Real voices! And then, like a mirage they appeared – three bikers riding down the street towards my building. I stood up, wobbly on my feet, and cried down like a modern-day Rapunzel.

“HELLOOOOO! UP HEEEERE! I’M LOCKED OUT OF MY CONDO, PLEASE HELP!!!”

They blinked at each other, baffled, and then looked up at me again.

“WHAT SHOULD WE DO?” they yelled back.

“GO TELL DOUG IN THE LOBBY THAT HE NEEDS TO COME UP AND UNLOCK MY DOOR! AND STEP ON IT!”

I used the last bit of my strength to yell my apartment number to them and then slumped back into my chair, exhausted. The next five minutes were excruciating, and I was convinced that the bikers had dismissed me as a crazy person and ridden into the sunset. But then Doug – sweet, adorable, helpful Doug – appeared inside and turned the door handle to let me in. I doubt he’s ever been so amused in his life. And the bikers were there too – my heroes! They had come up to enjoy the spectacle. I thanked them all profusely, painfully aware of my lack of clothing and the melted Otter Pops on the table. Soon all 5 of us were in stitches, and I was sad when they turned to go. “You are a fine group of people”, I said, as I locked the door behind them.

I’m not sure Bear Grylls would have been super proud of my performance on the balcony, and I don’t think I’ll be getting a call from the producers of I Shouldn’t Be Alive anytime soon. But an hour of looking in on my life from the outside was enough to be a bit of a perspective changer. And that Louie-Bloo never tasted so sweet.