One Flight at a Time

There is nothing worse than being a little overweight and having to deal with the heat.

And living in West Texas? The heat isn't exactly forgiving. When it's over 100 degrees outside, the air is dry, hot, and relentless. You can walk from the building to your car and feel like you've just stepped into an oven.

I'd been on a weight-loss journey, so I was trying to make better choices wherever I could.

That particular Friday afternoon, I walked out of work toward the parking garage and decided to take the stairs.

I was on the third floor.

It's not that bad, I told myself.

I can do this.

I'd walked down the stairs plenty of times. Going up shouldn't be that different, right?

Of course, I wasn't exactly traveling light. I had my backpack and my purse, and both were heavier than they had any right to be.

I grabbed the doorknob and gave myself one last pep talk.

Treat the backpack like the weighted vest you've worn before.

See? I had logic.

Sort of.

It was Friday afternoon, so thankfully the parking garage wasn't as full as it usually was during the week. There were still plenty of cars, but not nearly as many people.

That was important.

Because, just in case, I started having any heavy breathing issues, I wanted to be alone.

The first flight wasn't bad.

See? I told myself.

You've got this.

I made it to the second floor feeling pretty good about myself.

Then I started the second flight.

Halfway to the third floor, my breathing changed.

It wasn't terrible.

Just…different.

My lungs were beginning to work a little harder than I'd expected.

But I wasn't giving in.

I kept going.

By the time I pushed through the stairwell door onto the third floor, my lungs were gasping for air.

It felt like I was trapped inside a bubble and couldn't get enough oxygen into it.

And I still had to walk to my car.

Because remember, I was on a weight-loss journey.

I'd decided that parking farther away from the elevator would help me get more steps.

At that moment, I realized this had been the biggest mistake of my day.

Taking the stairs was one thing.

Taking the stairs and then having to walk across a parking garage in West Texas heat was an entirely different level of stupidity.

My body started sweating.

Not a cute little glow.

I'm talking profusely sweating.

My breathing became heavy. Then heavier.

Then I was heaving.

And the sound coming out of me was loud enough that I was pretty sure I sounded like a dying camel.

My throat was dryer than the Sahara Desert.

And then I remembered something important.

I didn't have any water.

I'd emptied the last of it from my water bottle earlier.

"Why?" I asked myself.

Of all the things I could have remembered before climbing three flights of stairs, hydration apparently wasn't one of them.

I pushed myself toward my car as quickly as I could.

I'd started the car before going upstairs, so at least I knew the air conditioning was waiting for me.

My sweat was running down the back of my neck. Beads rolled down my forehead and into my face. I could feel sweat everywhere—my back, my sides, even places I don't need to mention.

My entire body was fighting the heat.

Every breath felt hot.

My lungs burned.

I finally reached my car and stopped beside the passenger door.

Before I could open it, I took a few deep breaths.

Or tried to.

That's when I realized I wasn't alone.

A gentleman had just walked out of the elevator.

Great.

Of course.

He looked over at me.

I immediately stopped making the horrible noises that had been coming out of my mouth.

I tried to compose myself.

Apparently, I wasn't convincing.

He chuckled and looked around, almost as if he was trying to figure out where the noise was coming from.

Then his eyes landed on me.

He smiled.

And instead of leaving, the man got into his car.

And stayed there.

Oh, fantastic.

Apparently, I had an audience.

I decided to pretend he didn't exist.

I opened the passenger door of my car and threw my backpack and purse inside. I closed the door and stood for a moment, trying to get a decent breath.

The heat was exhausting.

I took what I considered a half-assed breath and started walking around to the driver's side.

That's when the pain hit.

A sharp pain grabbed my side.

I stopped.

"What the hell?"

I was breathing like I'd just run stadium stairs in my late teens.

Except I hadn't.

I'd climbed three flights of stairs and walked across a parking garage.

That was it.

Then the pain intensified.

It wasn't just the heavy breathing.

It was a cramp.

A horrible, stabbing cramp.

I grabbed my side and moaned.

Then I crouched down beside the driver's door, trying to stretch it out.

And that's when I heard footsteps.

Running footsteps.

Coming toward me.

I couldn't tell where they were coming from.

Then I looked up.

It was the man from the elevator.

He was standing in front of me, looking concerned.

Obviously he had absolutely no idea what was happening to me.

All he had seen was a sweaty woman grab her side, make strange noises, and slowly collapse beside her car with one hand in the air.

I didn't even remember putting my hand up.

I was too busy talking to myself.

"Oh, this stupid fat cramp!"

I grabbed my side harder.

"Damn fat cramp!"

That's what I call them.

Don't judge me.

He reached down to help me up.

"I'm fine," I told him.

I was not fine.

My face was bright red. I was drenched in sweat, struggling to breathe, and hunched over like my body had just betrayed me.

He looked genuinely concerned.

At that point, I wouldn't have blamed him for thinking I was having appendicitis.

"I'm okay," I insisted.

He didn't look convinced.

I finally managed to get a decent breath and slowly stood up.

He stared at me.

I started laughing.

"It's just fat people problems," I told him.

He looked even more confused.

"There is absolutely no reason to call an ambulance."

Because how was I supposed to explain that?

"Yes, hello, I need an ambulance. I tried to climb three flights of stairs because I'm trying to lose weight, and now I'm having a fat cramp while I can’t breathe."

No.

Absolutely not.

I would rather die.

I felt a bead of sweat roll straight into my left eye.

It burned.

So now I had one hand over my eye, the other pressed against my side, sweat pouring off me, and my lungs still struggling to catch up.

I was trying desperately not to sound like a crying camel but couldn’t avoid it.

The man looked at me for another second.

Then he ran back toward his vehicle.

A few moments later, he came back carrying a bottle of water.

Cold water.

He handed it to me already opened.

"Drink," he said.

"It's cold."

I looked at that bottle like it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

I took it from him and drank.

And immediately started choking.

Of course I did.

Because apparently one humiliating event wasn't enough.

The man started patting my back.

That wasn't working.

Then, in an attempt to help me breathe, he lifted my arms.

And that's when I accidentally spit the water directly onto his face.

I wanted to disappear.

I wanted the concrete beneath me to open up and swallow me whole.

I had just met this man, and I'd already drenched him in my spit.

I forced myself to breathe normally.

Eventually, I looked up.

He was smiling.

Thank God.

Because if he had been angry, I wasn't sure I could have survived the embarrassment.

Then I remembered something even worse.

My company had just moved into this building.

It was the end of my first week.

Wonderful.

I had just introduced myself to a stranger by nearly collapsing in a parking garage, choking on his water, and spitting it into his face.

Excellent first impression, Silvia.

We stared at each other for a moment.

I could feel my cheeks and ears getting hotter.

"I'm Silvia," I finally said.

He extended his hand.

"I'm Ryan."

I shook his hand.

"I'm really sorry about all this."

I motioned around me.

The sweat.

The dying camel noises.

The parking garage that echoed everything louder.

The water bottle.

The entire disaster.

He smiled.

"Are you feeling better?"

"I am."

I took a breath.

"But I'm totally humiliated that you had to witness all of this."

"No worries," he said. "I'm glad I had an extra bottle of cold water."

He paused.

"I seriously thought you were having an appendicitis situation when you grabbed your side and went down."

He tried not to laugh.

He failed.

I laughed too.

Because at that point, what else could we do?

I leaned back against my car and took another breath.

This one actually felt good.

Finally.

My car had already turned off by then, which meant we'd spent more than fifteen minutes standing there while I cooled down and recovered from my brilliant decision.

Ryan stayed.

He didn't rush me.

He didn't make me feel stupid.

He stood there and made sure I was okay.

Once the normal color started returning to my face, we started talking.

He asked what had caused the whole situation.

I knew he was probably expecting something dramatic.

I was almost too embarrassed to tell him the truth.

"I decided to walk up the stairs instead of taking the elevator," I whispered.

"Huh?"

"The stairs."

He looked at me.

"The stairs. Yes.”

I nodded.

"It's embarrassing. I overexerted myself trying to climb them."

He laughed.

But then his expression softened.

"Don't apologize. You're helping yourself by exercising."

He gestured toward the stairwell.

"Maybe just try one flight at a time?"

I smiled.

"Yes. Next time."

I held up the water bottle.

"And thank you for the water."

Eventually, we went our separate ways.

I was still embarrassed.

Actually, embarrassed doesn't begin to describe it.

I wanted to quit my job.

I wanted to move buildings.

I wanted to disappear and never return to that parking garage again.

I didn't want to become the butt of the building's jokes.

But Monday morning, I ran into Ryan.

He smiled.

I smiled.

We got into the elevator together.

And immediately, I stated what had been bothering me all weekend.

"Please don't make fun of me."

He smiled.

"Mum's the word."

I believed him.

So far, it's been the end of my second week in the building, and nobody has looked at me and laughed.

Nobody has said anything.

And, thankfully, Ryan kept his word.

But I learned something that day.

My body was trying to tell me something.

I didn't need to give up.

I just needed to slow down.

One flight at a time.

I didn't fail because I couldn't climb three flights of stairs.

I simply wasn't ready for three flights yet.

And maybe that's okay.

I'll get there.

One flight at a time.

Just...

Next time, I'm bringing water.