Breaking and Entering. part 1

So the other night I decided to go work out. My new apartment complex boasts a fairly nice workout room with brand new equipment. And I'm fat. So putting the two of us together seemed like a good idea at the time. It was a Friday and I have no life, so off I went. I grabbed my iPod, headphones, and apartment keys. This is important. It's also important to know that I was wearing my dark green "I'm a B.A. Baracus" t-shirt and black Adidas shorts. These are the very same Adidas shorts that I have been working out in since I was in college. Back when I wasn't fat. They don't look as good on me as they used to because I quit wearing them for a while. It's a tragic fact of life, but the point is that these shorts are a bit tighter and shorter than they used to be. And they're black. I justified my extreme fashion faux pas with two thoughts. 1) They have a white and green stripe on the side, so that pulls in the green t-shirt. and 2) I'm just going to go work out. Who's going to see me?

Enter the cold laugh of irony.

So I go work out. And I got some great cardio in. I pushed myself really hard, so hard to the point that I started counting loudly and screamed a couple of times. So much so that I reminded myself of that guy in "The 40-year-old Virgin" commercials that screams "KELLY CLARKSON!" when he's getting his chest waxed. So I was quite sweaty and red faced and not pleasant when I finished. I stretched and walked back to my building.

I've got a new extra security door to get into my building now and have locked myself out only once because I forgot about that stupid thing. I'm much smarter than the door now and easily made it inside my building. I got up to my apartment, put my key in, unlocked the door, and pushed.

And the door didn't open.

At first I completely freaked out because I thought someone was inside my apartment and keeping me from opening the door. So I pushed and again it only opened a couple of inches and just stopped. At this point, the lack of oxygen reaching my brain caused me to assume that a serial killer was in my apartment but wasn't yet ready to let me in to kill me. So he was stopping me from entering my own home in order to mentally prepare himself for the kill. So I did the obvious thing.

I went back downstairs.

I sat down outside my building and tried to think. Why would someone hide in my apartment and then not let me in? That's ridiculous. BGF was at a party and his car was nowhere around, so it wasn't him being stupid. And then it dawned on me.

The security latch on the inside of my door had fallen over and latched. With no one in the apartment.

At this point, let me remind you that I live on the 3rd floor. So there is no other way to get into my apartment but through the front door. Why I didn't think of that when I was on my serial killer kick, I don't know. But now the idea is hitting me that I am completely and totally SCREWED.

I went back upstairs and tried one more time and there was just no getting in. I kept thinking that if I could just get my finger close enough to the latch I could push it back. But when they call those things "extra security," they mean it.

BGF was supposed to come over after his little house warming soiree, so my first thought was to just wait for him. I couldn't call him because I had lent him MY cell phone in case he got lost on the way. And here's the first important lesson from all of this: DON'T BE NICE! KEEP YOUR OWN CELL PHONE ON YOU!

So I decided to wait. And walk. And wait. And walk. And stalk EVERY SINGLE CAR that came into the parking lot. It was starting to get dark and so it was harder to see the cars that were driving in. But how else was I supposed to identify BGF's car if I didn't get as close as freaking possible to those cars? I didn't look like a crazy stalker! No! Not me! Simply like a girl who had somehow managed to get locked out of her new apartment with no phone or means of transportation.

Eventually I decided to walk to the hotel that is near my apartment complex and call BGF on my number, because obviously, this "boring" party of his was lasting longer than expected. So me and my BA Baracus-self strolled right on up to the Sleep Inn and waltzed into the nice lobby full of well-dressed travelers and proceeded to wait for the clerk. And wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. I mean, I knew I looked scary with the red face and red knees and sweaty hair, but come on? Did they have to ignore me?

***Since this is so long, I'm ending this story for tonight. But stay tuned for tomorrow's conclusion in which you and I will both learn the importance of knowing your local sheriff's phone number and how to put a motel clerk in a headlock.***