I press the button that will take me to the 25th floor of my office building. I’m in luck. I have the space - 180 cubic feet - all to myself.
The hand railings could become ballet barres for hamstring stretches or a support for long shoulder pulls if I’ve been at my computer too long. I engage in these activities frequently enough that I consider elevator time part of my mental and physical fitness regime.
Or I could use the space to practice my salsa moves to latin beats I play in my head. 1,2,3 _ 5,6,7 _
I can stand in the center of my ‘room’ with hands outstretched and push off from wall to wall and tic toc myself back and forth.
The head of Fiscal once boarded my elevator on 17 and caught me transitioning from virabhadrasana to ‘good morning how are you’ pose and asked with a smile, “are we playing on the elevator?” She might have meant that I’m not the only one or possibly I have a reputation I don’t know about.
Today though, it’s a compact theater for my one-woman, self-audienced show and I improvise a combination jig and tap routine while whistling Lady of Spain.