If Father Time came up to me and said:

I would have to say:

It’s not because I went through any traumatizing hardships or suffered a lot of misery (although, the demise of “Crystal Pepsi” was pretty depressing for me). Far from it. I have the greatest parents in the world, a sister who is also my best friend, a loving extended family, amazingly awesome friends, 3 adorable cats and, of course, all of you wonderful Xangans who have inspired and supported me through the years. I can say without any hesitation that the 28 years I’ve lived so far have been worth every second—ups, downs, and everything in between.

But if my life was so great, shouldn’t I take Father Time up on his offer? I’d be able to experience all those fun memories a second time around–living it up “Double Mint” style…you know, “double the pleasure, double the fun” (but minus Chris Brown because he’d turn it into “double the b*tch slaps”).

And yet, that isn’t enough to make me want to relive my life from the beginning. It’s not even remotely tempting to me. You want to know why? I’ll tell you why:

Okay, maybe calling Father Time a “putrid old fart” doesn’t seem like the best way to go–and maybe my reason for refusing the chance to start my life over again is weak. But honestly, you’d react the same way if your baby teeth fell out the way mine did.

I vividly remember the day I lost my first tooth. It was back in kindergarten, and I was really excited when I discovered I could make a tooth dance with my tongue. Not only was it entertaining, it also meant I was officially part of the cool club. Back then, a kid who had a loose tooth was automatically awesome because she could show off her wiggly tooth to the rest of the class, leaving the rest of us impressed by her talent…and also secretively jealous. After all, everyone knew about the Tooth Fairy: she gave kids quarters for every tooth they put under their pillows. Can you believe it?! A quarter! And not even one of those fake quarters that have chocolate inside them. The Tooth Fairy gave out real quarters! You could probably buy, like, a million “Easy Bake Ovens” with that much money!

So a kid who had a loose tooth was not only cool, she was also on her way to becoming a billionaire. And everyone wanted to be just like her…not me, though, because thanks to my loose tooth, I was her.

Anyway, my mom had checked my tooth regularly and one day determined it would be ready for extraction the following day (must be something that comes with maternal instincts). And I didn’t even have to go to the awful dentist to get it removed because my mom was going to do it for me. She said she was going to use the same method my grandmother used back in the day. I didn’t bother to ask for any details–there wasn’t any reason to. All grandmas are bad ass, and everything they do is also going to be bad ass–including pulling out teeth. So when my mom told me she was relying on my grandmother’s method, that was all I needed to know.

Being able to put a tooth under your pillow is a rite of passage every child looks forward to, so of course, I was beyond ecstatic when I learned my turn had finally come. The rest of the day just came and went, seemingly whisked away by the excitement of becoming 25 cents richer. And before I knew it, another day of kindergarten had ended and it was now snack time at the school’s after-school care program. The snack that day was apple slices with a small dollop of peanut butter on the side—one of my favorites.

I thought “Today is turning into the best day ever! First mama tells me I’m getting my tooth pulled out tomorrow, and now I’m eating apple slices and peanut butter!”

I took a greedy bite of apple and was surprised–this apple slice was oddly warm and salty.

I’d had nose bleeds before, so I knew that what I was tasting was blood. I then ran my tongue over my loose tooth and found that it had been replaced by a gap…and more blood.

I ran over to a teacher to make sure I wasn’t imagining things. And to this day, I can still remember the look on her face when I showed her my mouth–it was a twisted mix of shock and disgust.

I just stood there for a few seconds. So I really am bleeding…

And then:

Ahh…my first delayed reaction!

I really don’t know why I started crying. I mean, I knew my tooth fell out and my mouth was bleeding because of it, yet I wasn’t crying then. But when my teacher confirmed what I already knew, that’s when I started bawling hysterically. It was so Pavlovian, except instead of a dog salivating at the sound of a bell, you had a little girl crying after being told that this gap between her teeth was bleeding.

In the middle of my fit, something suddenly occurred to me: where was the tooth?! I was so freaked out by the thought of blood in my mouth that I didn’t bother to put the tooth in a safe place. Oh no…did I just lose my lost tooth?!

I had to find it. If I didn’t, some evil kid with all his teeth intact might take it and put it under his own pillow! And then the Tooth Fairy would give him the quarter that was meant for me, and then he’d be able to buy a million “Easy Bake Ovens!”

I ran back to my seat and tried to crawl under the table because I thought my tooth was on the ground. There actually wasn’t anything there, but I didn’t know that because my tears had made my vision blurry. Not like it mattered anyway because before I could do any searching, the teacher picked me up and led me away:

She gave me a bag of ice to put to my mouth, and another teacher came over and handed me a small plastic bag. Inside, carefully wrapped in some paper towels was my tooth…and the apple slice I’d bitten into earlier.

Ugh…the memories still make me uncomfortable.

After that awful day, I vowed to stay away from apples the next time I had a loose tooth. And it was because I had made such a resolution that my second tooth stayed in place long enough for my mom to remove it.

Since this was the first tooth my mom would be pulling out (the first attempt having been thwarted by evil fruit), I didn’t know what to expect. I just figured that because she was using my grandmother’s method, everything was going to be okay.

And then my mom tied a piece of thread around my loose tooth.

And then:

Bam! She hit the top of my head with one hand and pulled my tooth out with the other.

And that’s how the rest of my baby teeth came out–one actually required two attempts because the string came undone. Thus, did my baby-teeth-losing phase come to pass: miserably, and without a single “Easy Bake Oven” or “Happy Meal” to show for it.

Do you now see why would called Father Time a putrid old fart? And you know you’d all do the same!

Just like with toilet paper rolls, there are certain unspoken rules we all must abide by when riding in elevators, such as:

            1. Don’t fart in an elevator;

            2. Don’t press (or let someone else press) every button on the control panel;

            3. If you see someone pushing every button on the control panel, you have the privilege duty to chuck the offender off the highest floor of the building. Doesn’t matter if that is the second or the twenty-second floor—that person must be chucked;

            4. If you see someone carrying groceries from Costco, don’t do this:

Are plastic-wrapped trays of bell peppers really so intriguing? Because Old Man River almost poked a hole through the wrapper.

…and, of course,

            5. Hold the elevator doors open for stragglers.

The tricky part about the fifth rule is figuring out which stragglers give rise to this obligation. You’d obviously hold the doors open for those who were waiting for the elevator at the same time you were, but what about the people who are still walking towards the lobby by the time you’ve already gotten into the elevator?

That’s where the Elevator Rider Zone, or ERZ, comes in to save the day. The ERZ is the zone around an elevator lobby that a person must be within in order for Rule 5 to kick in. Every elevator has its own ERZ, the radius of which is determined by the community of users. For example, at my apartment complex, the ERZ appears to be based on the time it takes the elevator doors to close: if you are within the lobby by the time the doors start closing, then whoever is in the elevator must hold the doors open for you. And if you are walking towards the elevator and you notice that someone behind you is also headed in that direction, then you have to hold the elevator doors open for that person if he makes it into the lobby when the doors start closing.

Most of my fellow residents are Rule 5-abiding people. I’d like to say “all of my fellow residents” instead, but I can’t because of this:

One day, I was taking the elevator down to the garage:

I had barely taken two steps out of the elevator when this guy suddenly pushed me aside, and rushed in:

It wasn’t a forceful push, but it was enough to make me turn around and give him an evil, frigid b*tch glare (that’s about the extent of my throw-down repertoire).

I started evilly staring at him, but it was quickly apparent that my efforts were going to waste because the guy wasn’t even paying attention to me.

He was instead staring over me and into the parking lot. He was also mashing the “close door” button—not that I could see which key he was pressing since I was already outside of the elevator, but I am pretty sure that’s the button he was going off on because the doors started closing way sooner than they normally would have.

As the doors were coming together, a woman walked into the lobby and towards the elevator. But the doors didn’t open—they ended up shutting right in her face!

As far-fetched as this may sound, I seriously believe the guy was trying to avoid having to wait for the woman by closing the doors before Rule 5 kicked in. That, or she was actually an axe murderer trying to kill him…maybe because he had closed the elevator doors on her face before…? Hmm…

That guy was trying to avoid being a Rule 5 benefactor, but what about someone who is trying to be a Rule 5 beneficiary, even though she’s not within the ERZ? That’s the question I’m stuck at.

Here’s what happened:

I was in the elevator:

I love Costco, okay? I mean, I’d live there if I could—and then I could have a giant chicken pot pie every single day!

There wasn’t anyone near the lobby when the elevator doors started closing, so I didn’t have to do any obligatory Rule 5 waiting. But, just when the doors were about to completely shut, I sudden heard:

I threw my hands between the doors, and they opened up again. But when I looked outside, I didn’t see anyone in the lobby. Did I have to pee so badly that I was now hearing things? Or maybe it was those damned UTI-causing bacteria trying to prevent me from killing their colonization dreams!

It turned out to be neither. Instead, I looked towards the garage and I saw this abomination:

Yes, this tanned-to-a-crisp leather monster with bleached-out hair and eyebrows (and most likely carpet, if she had any) was the one who had bellowed out “Wait! Wait!” I don’t even know why she needed me to hold the elevator for her when she was at the far end of the parking lot, way outside the ERZ.

Plus, the elevator isn’t slow, and it only has to service 6 floors. Why couldn’t she just wait for it to come back down?

It really doesn’t matter; she shouted, I heard her, and now I was holding the elevator for her as she slowly made her way towards the lobby. She probably could have walked a bit faster, but she was too busy typing on her cell phone to bother with being considerate to me and my increasingly unhappy bladder.

By the way: my bladder speaks with a British accent.

The elevator here has an alarm that goes off whenever the doors are held open for too long—roughly 60 seconds or so. The sound is piercing and so loud that you can hear it even though you’re not anywhere near the elevator. I think the alarm was programmed that way to shame whoever is holding things up. And on that day, the shamed person was supposed to be me:

The blaring “BEEP” was putting more stress on my bladder which, in turn, heightened my own distress. I was hoping that the girl would hear the alarm and move a bit faster, but she didn’t. And I know it she heard it, because she looked up at me when it started:

…And then went back to texting!

I’d had enough. I was on the verge of becoming a bad “Depends” commercial, and my hearing was deteriorating with each passing second. I had to choose between breaking Rule 5 or bursting my bladder, and I chose the first option. That girl was a rude, leathery, ass monster who was going to just have to wait for the elevator to come back down after it dropped me off.

I think I was pretty justified in closing the elevator on the girl in that situation, but I am left wondering: if I didn’t have to pee badly, and if the leather monster wasn’t an inconsiderate b*tch, would I have been obligated to hold the elevator for her? I know she was out of the ERZ, but she made it known that she was approaching, and had requested that I wait for her. Are you supposed to then wait for someone under those circumstances?

I’m serious: what’s the elevator etiquette on this one?