The Stairs
By: Natalie Enn
Tags: Funny, Life, Humour, Musings, Lifestyle

There are 13 stairs in my house and having them is still a novelty as I grew up in a bungalow.

I know that there are 13 stairs as I’m currently trying to teach my little man how to count and, as he crawls up, we count each step and then celebrate with whooping sounds and exciteable shouts as we reach the top.

Upon ascending to the top I’ve observed him looking at me quizzically and in those moments I wonder whether he is aware that, at times, my congratulatory squeals of delight, are put-on and strained. It’s like he suspects it, but can’t quite prove that this is indeed the case.

It’s just that sometimes we travel up the stairs as much as 15 times a day and so, you know.

On the flip side, those stairs haunt me sometimes.

I can’t seem to get away from those fitness influencers who suggest ditching the gym and instead, using items within your home for a workout. I see them during every advert break when I am vegging on the sofa and I’ve noticed that they seem to be strategically placed between the cooking shows. The shows containing burgers and pizzas.

The stairs seem to be a favoured piece of equipment for these influencers and I really do need to give it a go.

I mean, I’m not suggesting that I run up and down all 13 steps at lightning speed. No. I enjoy having a neck that is untwisted and in one smooth piece. But they have a point; “the stairs could be a whole body workout, just by focusing on the bottom two. There’s no excuse!” they say. So with every journey up those stairs, those words come flooding into my consciousness and I’m immediately laden with guilt. Especially as I was probably thinking about burgers or pizzas just a few seconds prior and had most likely made up my mind to cook it, that very evening.

I amplify that guilt by going to extreme lengths to ensure that I only have to make one trip up and down those stairs.

I’ve been known to throw some excess items to the bottom of the stairs and then balance the rest in my arms and against my cheek, just to avoid an extra journey. Sometimes it’s hazardous as my vision is obstructed. But no injuries yet. Solely by the grace of God and the protection of his Angels, most likely.

On other days I could be balancing a toddler (of ever-increasing weight) on one hip, a phone in my mouth (that the boy insists on trying to repeatedly yank, mid-flight), a half-filled cup of cold coffee, a pack of wipes and a notebook in one hand/balancing somewhere on my body. Then I get downstairs and realised I’ve left the blasted charger upstairs.

The question in my mind is then, do I carry this slim but deceptively heavy child up and down the now TWENTY-SIX steps, or ask him to stay at the bottom of the stairs, knowing full well that he’ll defy me and that in those brief seconds of me dashing for the charger, the front room will be trashed to an irretrievable extent.

We all say it, especially in later years. But there’s that whole thing about reaching the top of the stairs and forgetting why you went up there. I don’t take it lightly and whilst others may jog downstairs jovially, shaking their head at how silly they’ve been, to me it’s anything but a joke and I’m doing anything but giggling.

I don’t just sprint back down with the thought that I’ll just ‘nip back up’ when I remember. No, I sit on the bed and trace every thought and footstep I can recall, in a desperately saddening effort to make the journey worthwhile. I’ve been known to let my dinner go cold.

There’s that halfway panic as well. Recalling that I’ve left an item back in the bedroom, mid-step. It’s massively dangerous as it confuses my brain. It’s like a fuse is shorted because of the complex nature of the problem. Do I place my foot safely on the next step, or do I defy gravity and adjust my weight which is by now bound for the next step, pivot in mid-air and swing back on up? These things are sent to test us, for sure.

I have a glass of water by my bed at night as I become exceptionally thirsty. On the rare nights that I forget, the descend down the stairs is similar to walking a tightrope with a blindfold. I’m as parched as heck, but equally exhausted. I don’t want to turn the light on or open my eyes too wide for fear that I’ll properly wake up and struggle to return to slumber. So I slowly decline down those 13 creaky steps, in the pitch black, with my eyes closed. Gripping onto that bannister like I’m journeying the most extreme white-knuckle ride. Then there’s the terrifying experience of pouring a cup of water, in the same vein. Thankfully the return journey up the stairs isn’t nearly as bad.

I usually draw the line at counting the steps when I’m by myself, but I wonder if this may happen subconsciously anyway, at these times. Most likely for fear of taking a tumble in the dark, the resulting effect being a neck not as smooth and untwisted as it presently is.

Saying that, I’ve fallen up those stairs more than I’ve fallen down them. This reminds me of one of the most embarrassing upward falls I’ve had.

Imagine this. Walking up to an escalator at a tube station, I’m heading out and so wearing a beautiful dress, receiving admiring stares (which I’m aware of but pretend I haven’t seen), think to myself “this darn escalator is taking way too long for me to be moving so slowly in this gorgeous dress”, attempt to bypass all of the other travellers and overtake elegantly, huge tumble up the stairs…… Marilyn Monroe. Attempt to delicately hop up and glide away as if the incident never took place. Eventually, as my pace quickens, the sniggers fade into the background. But it’s too late. Mortal embarrassment.

The stairs.

They’re everywhere I turn and everywhere I go. Can’t escape them.