New York Syndrome, or VIVE LE FLORG!

J and I were walking to our building's front door tonight when we spotted an unshaven scarecrow of a man wearing a dark puffer coat, what appeared to be capri-length sweatpants, and bedroom slippers, striding along from the opposite direction. I gave J a sidelong glance which, in Couple Eye Speak, said "clearly, this man is to be avoided," and J, in turn, responded with a look that said "indeed. We should give him a wide berth. Also, we should make that soup again soon. The one with the root vegetables. It was really good. Did you finish that book you were reading?"

What? We've been together a long time.  You pick up these skills.

We then observed that Florg -- I have dubbed him Florg -- wasn't ambling on down the road to Cray-Craytown, but rather, following us into the building. Splendid! Florg lives here, it seems. The elevator -- for which we were all waiting -- hadn't yet arrived, so I made a quick stop at our mailbox to grab our stuff. As I was LITERALLY INCHES FROM THE ARRIVING ELEVATOR WHOSE DOOR HAD NOT YET OPENED, this happened:

GIRLIE, you guys. It is at this point important to note that: (a) again, the elevator was actively not there yet; (b) I was holding my mail, not reading it, but that's neither here nor there; (c) I am thrilled that I remembered this picture of me existed because it is wholly accurate, in terms of my expression; and (d) J was talking to our doorman, and thus oblivious to my plight. ("Go up without me," he said. "I'll be up in a minute," he said.)

As I stood there, flummoxed, Florg fixed his gaze upon me once more. "Are you coming or what?" he growled at me, as we both stood there. Next to each other. Both waiting for the same elevator. Meanie!

Considering that we live on the third floor, I probably could've just said, "no thanks! I'll walk!" But I have New York Syndrome, which is a totally real, and not-at-all made up thing, wherein I am generally a normal, calm and even-keeled kind of person, but when a stranger in this fair city behaves in a mean and/or untoward manner with me, I turn into an aggressive, Hulk-like  "OH, YOU WANT TO GO? COME ON! LET'S GO!!!" type person. (I've had too many strange pervert dongs pressed against my back on the subway, you guys. Too many! One of those dongs broke this camels back. Or something.)

I defiantly told Florg that yes, I was going to be taking the elevator. Because I like to tempt fate, I told him this with the same snotty, slow, sarcastically patient tone I used to use on my parents when they inquired about the difference between Lugz and Doc Martens.  I got in with him, my head held high. "I certainly showed him!" I proudly told myself, because clearly this was very, very important. I made a big show of looking through my mail.

It was then that I realized I had forgotten to press the button for my floor, and I was stuck in the elevator with Florg until we reached his. I then had to OVER-ACT, like I'd meant to do this, and --oh lord, I don't even know. Stupid karma. I took the elevator back downstairs and J was like, "Oh thank God, I thought he'd kidnapped you."

While I obviously need to spend the rest of my days here avoiding Florg, I am, in one way, relieved. Every apartment building I've ever lived in has at LEAST one known crazy/crotchety person. I hadn't mentioned this, but, well, we hadn't found this building's crazy inhabitant in the few months we've lived here, and I was starting to get nervous. After all, if you can't spot the crazy person in the room, then the crazy person is you.  And so: VIVE LE FLORG!