<\/p>\n
There is truly nothing more embarrassing than arriving at Mason Hall 3330 at 10 a.m. panting, beads of sweat beginning to perspire on my forehead. No, I did not run to class (an image of me lumbering down State Street with my backpack haunts my nightmares) nor did I have some illicit affair in the inner workings of the Mason\/Angell\/Tisch\/Haven Hall labyrinth. Unfortunately, it\u2019s much worse: I took the stairs.<\/p>\n
In a time where our tallest skyscrapers<\/a> reach more than 130 floors and stairs are hidden in dingy back corners of buildings, elevators feel like a Darwinian adaptation. Not only do they provide a modern luxury and the slight thrill of feeling the floor rise or fall under your feet, but they also have their own sub-genre<\/a> of music to bump on your way up or down. Yet, as someone who hates cramped spaces and the awkwardness of spamming the \u201cclose\u201d button<\/a>, the stairs are often my favorite mode of ascension and descension. Maybe it\u2019s some lingering childhood trauma from the \u201cStretching Room\u201d<\/a> in Walt Disney World, or the omniscient voice of my father describing how he always takes the stairs \u2014 a separate form of childhood trauma \u2014 but since coming to college, I\u2019ve been the one searching for the staircase in any building.<\/p>\n