Fanfare for the Common Man: It’s upstairs | Columnist | Berkeley Independent

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Fanfare for the Common Man: It’s upstairs

Published Tuesday, December 15, 2009 9:44 AM

By Dan Brown
Berkeley Independent

It’s been awhile since I lived in a house with two stories. I was in my late thirties then, younger and in much better shape.

I still did manly things like cut down trees and chop firewood. I thought I was a real life Paul Bunyan with the red flannel shirt, faded jeans, Timberlands (with lace option engaged) and bright red suspenders.

I’d go find me one of those dead volunteer scrub pines, whip out my big axe and set to chopping. If I could bring down big trees without killing myself, going upstairs wasn’t that big of a deal.

I didn’t mind back then. Shoot, we even had nine-foot ceilings, which meant a total of 15 steps to climb instead of the customary thirteen.

What’s so bad about a couple more steps?

Even with a couple bad knees and an arthritic ankle I could still lumber decently. I could still run – well, my definition of running, that is.

Sometimes I’d even take those steps two at a time.

I’m almost 15 years older now and even 13 steps are hard, especially when you only have one bathroom and it’s upstairs.

I’d need a rest stop about halfway up then. Not good when traversing the steps with a too-full bladder.

You try running upstairs in the event of an emergency like that, it’s not easy.

I’m beginning to loathe that phrase. “It’s upstairs.”

It seems to follow every remark or thought I make lately. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom, and there’s only one.”

It’s upstairs.

“I came downstairs with just one sock on me, where’s the other one?”

It’s upstairs.

“The phone is ringing and I can’t remember where I put it last.”

It’s upstairs.

“I want to lie down on the couch and read my book, where is it?”

It’s upstairs.

“My cell phone died where’s the charger?”

It’s upstairs.

Everything’s upstairs.

Living in a single story domicile it’s not so bad. What’s so bad about “it’s on the other side of the house?” Nothing. It’s a nice jog.

I used to live in this one bedroom apartment that was set up like a big donut. All the closets were arranged in the center, and all the rooms were connected around it. You’d go from the kitchen down the hall to the bathroom, which opened into my bedroom, which opened into the family room, which opened into the kitchen. It would have been fun riding a Big Wheel.

The apartment was a pretty straightforward and simple approach, not complicated at all. There were no circuitous paths to take unless you chose to take one just to mix things up a bit.

Here, it’s straightforward and simple also. If I want it and I’m downstairs, it’s upstairs, and if I’m upstairs and I need it – like toilet paper, where is it class?

Yep, you guessed it. It’s downstairs.

Being a fresh 52, I find myself going upstairs a lot more frequently these days. I guess it’s one of those things that go with getting older.

I also find that I’m a lot more careful coming downstairs as well.

I live alone. Never know when I might fall down and not be able to get up. I take it one step at a time and I come downstairs like my grandma used to. Like a Slinkie.

I’ll say this right now. Two things you’ll never see in my house.

One is The Clapper. The second is Life Alert.

Nothing against Life Alert, mind you, but there’s no way I’m walking around with one of those things around my neck.

I will fall down and not be able to get up for three days before I wear one of those things.

With my luck, I’ll eventually relent and get one of those Life Alert things – you never know when I might pitch headlong over the upstairs banister – and I’ll one day fall and not be able to get up, and I’ll reach for my Life Alert thingie.

And where will it be?

All together now…

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