*nope.

So here’s what actually happened.

Last week, I got into the elevator on the first floor, with 3 other adults and a 4-year-old kid. We all pressed our floors. Then the elevator stopped on floor 2, and a woman with a huge laundry cart got on. Fine, that’s allowed. But I would like to note that she entered the elevator somewhat aggressively, and essentially backed me into the far corner without so much as an “excuse me.” Technically still her right, but objectively pretty cunty.

Then, something strange happened with the elevator. When the woman got on at floor 2, all the floors we had previously pressed became unlit. So the woman, let’s call her Nasty McDouchecanoe, who was now standing directly in front of the buttons, barked, “Ok everyone just tell me their floors and I’ll hit them.” So, everyone did. Someone said 17, another said 20, another said 25, and I said 28.

She proceeded to hit floors 17, 20, 21 (presumably for herself), 25 and did not hit my request of 28.

So, thinking she simply didn’t hear me over the demons and firemonsters dancing in her head, I leaned forward from the time-out corner she had shoved me into, and attempted to press my floor.

When she saw my hand coming from behind and reaching for the buttons, she pushed it away, back towards my body, and hissed, “Back off, you can wait!”

Not knowing wtf was going on but assuming this woman was legit insane, I calmly said “Ok…” went back to my time-out, and stood there in silence. The elevator proceded to rise and go to everyone’s floor except mine, as she had not pressed my button nor was she permitting me to press it for myself, because apparently when I stepped into this elevator I had entered Gilead.

Everyone was silent and not really sure how to react, particularly with the 4-year-old kid there. A couple people looked at me, but mostly with sympathy, rather than what I wanted, which was either a gigantic “What an asshat!” eye roll or a punch to this woman’s vagina.

When the elevator stopped at 21, Nasty McDouchecanoe got off, and, over her shoulder, spat, “See, you still have plenty of time to get to 28.”

The doors closed and I was left in the elevator with one other woman. I calmly hit 28, now that I was back in the free world and allowed to do so, and took a deep breath. The woman looked at me awkwardly and said, “When is your due date? You look fantastic!”

She clearly felt sorry for me.

Again, not what I wanted– I would have preferred this woman save her compliment and instead put that energy toward tripping Nasty McDouche on her way out, but fine. At least she was being humane. I smiled, told her I was due in a month, and thanked her for her kind words. Then she got off on 25.

The bizarre incident was officially over and I had survived it with no real harm done, so what did I do once I was alone in the elevator?

I sobbed like a pregnant little bitch.

Yes, clearly hormones were at play here, but still– the amount and decibel of sobbing was batshit. I had clearly caught an insanity bug from Nasty McD, and there was simply no controlling the extreme emotional reaction I was having to what, in hindsight, was a pretty fucking minor event.

I tremble-sobbed my way into my apartment, and, once confined to the safety of my hibernation station, immediately texted Eric the following:

Hey, here’s a tip! Don’t tell your husband that someone slapped you if no one slapped you.

Clearly I was distraught and wasn’t thinking through my words. Yes, this woman had pretty much “slapped my hand away” from the buttons, but if we’re going to get VERY literal about what happened, there was no actual SLAP. She pushed it away. Not gently, mind you. But nobody got slapped.

Too late.

Eric sent a series of concerned texts and then, when I didn’t answer fast enough (because the mucus-tears were dripping down my screen and preventing touch-typing, as somehow Apple has not yet developed the technology to keep up with my nervous breakdowns), he called.

I was still hysterical choke-sobbing, because sure. I told him the whole story between blowing snot into copious napkins, ending with “and then she slapped my hand away from the buttons and told me to back off.”

Again, that word “slapped.” Not QUITE in line with what happened. But then again, neither was my shitnado reaction.

Eric calmly said, “Ok, I’m calling management, and I’m coming home,” then hung up and did exactly that.

To be clear, this is NOT what I wanted.

I tried to text him to tell him to PLEASE not report this to our building’s management company, but it was too late.  He told me he reported it, that they were horrified, and that they were going to review the security tapes, find out who it was, and handle it.

I wanted to die.

Me: “Eric, seriously, I really don’t want management involved. This is getting blown out of proportion.”

Eric: “SOMEONE ASSAULTED MY PREGNANT WIFE!”

I closed my eyes, took a deep, snot-filled breath and PRAYED this was not the wording he used when he spoke to management, while at the same time fully recognizing that if he DID use those words, it was 100% justified and totally my fault because I literally relayed the information to him in the same way Sarah Huckabee Sanders holds a press conference.

Which is to say I lied.

Not intentionally, like Sarah Huckabee Sanders, but more inadvertently, because I don’t do words good, like Sean Spicer.

Regardless, semantics matter.

And unfortunately, when speaking, I’m not always so on-point. When writing, and given time to edit and revise, I can be fairly articulate, but even then I end up with phrases such as Nasty McDouchecanoe and words that aren’t words, like “cunty.”

Once Eric got home (because yes, he left work at 2pm to tend to a wife who got her feelings hurt, as he is a saint of epic proportions), I was a bit calmer (still crying a few more whimper-tears though, because I’m an adult with 2 masters degrees and my own business). I was able to explain to him what ACTUALLY happened versus what he was probably imagining happened based on my extremely shitty initial relaying of the story.

I then made Eric, god bless his definitely-regretting-marrying-me soul, call back the head of management (who is basically the nicest person on the planet, and who I will now forever have to avoid due to crippling embarrassment) and explain that no one is claiming assault of a pregnant woman. Yes, Nasty McD pushed my hand away. Yes, she prevented me from pressing the button to my floor, which I just kind of took for granted as my basic human right. Yes, she was extremely rude and yes, the incident clearly upset me and made me and everyone in the elevator extremely uncomfortable, but no, Mr. Management, we are not thinking of pressing charges or calling the cops and oh jesus christ what is happening and how is this my life?!

Mr. Management thanked us for clarifying (and luckily we were able to do so BEFORE he grabbed a tub of popcorn and reviewed the security tape, as he for sure would have laugh-choked once he viewed “the assault”). He also said that while it was not a crime per se, it was still an upsetting and unacceptable incident that should not have occurred. Therefore, the woman would be contacted and gently warned that her behavior had been reported and viewed on security footage, that what occured is not in line with the neighborly atmosphere they like to cultivate in their residencies, and to please consider this the next time she is interacting with her neighbors in the communal living spaces.

Ummm…..fucking  

So remember that post where I said I somehow manage to make enemies in every building I occupy? Well, add Nasty McD to the enemy list. Also mark this as #920183098219839382195 on my list of reasons why I am scared to leave the apartment or interact with humans in general.

But whatever, this woman was a huge asshole for NO reason, and a part of me is not sorry that there will be some kind of small consequence for her behavior (although let’s be honest, this woman is not going to give a FUCK when she gets that call from management…or, alternatively, she is outside my door right now with a shotgun.)

But yeah, overall, I definitely feel like that annoying Kindergartener who runs and tattles to the teacher instead of using her words to defend herself.

But let the record show: I did NOT want to run and tattle to management like a whiny little 5-year-old pussy.

I wanted to run and tattle to my husband like a giant 36-year-old pussy.

And that, I think we can all agree, was accomplished with accuracy.