In life, there are only a few things that you can really control. What you do, what you say, and what you voluntarily consume are some examples that come to mind. But most of the time, control is an illusion. We live largely at the mercy of random, unknowable, and mostly uncontrollable forces and events. Not to get all science-y with you, but it has been hypothesized that the perception that one has control is likely a psychological and biological necessity.
I am, admittedly, a control superfreak. I find comfort in planning a contingency for the contingency. I try to anticipate the needs of others around me to create or maintain calm. I obsess over travel itineraries for activities and every meal option to maximize my family’s positive vacation experience. There’s much more, but I don’t want to bore you.
The logical side of me knows that my craving for control is a way to reduce anxiety and gain a sense of certainty in a chaotic world. And even though on some level, I recognize that I can’t control much in the universe, I still try. I distinctly recall that my control superfreak tendencies became more pronounced when I started Brooklyn Law School. But not necessarily because law school was so stressful (which it was). Which leads me to the life lesson I learned, courtesy of a scatterbrained neighbor in my old Brooklyn Heights apartment: much of what happens in life is beyond our control. But when you learn to coexist with the unknown, rather than resist it, you can create space for growth and maybe even pleasant surprises. Or, you can just move.
Here’s my story…
On the house
I began law school in the fall right after my college graduation. You may recall from previous blogs that I had endured less-than-ideal living situations in my four years at Binghamton University. Opting for a known quantity in my next housing arrangement, I asked my older sister, then an optometry student who already lived in New York City, to be my roommate. Semi-cohabitating with the young man she was dating at the time, my sister benevolently agreed to move in with me. She didn’t actually plan on staying at “our” apartment much, but it made my parents feel better about my move to the New York City area.
I still remember the pre-war walk-up on Clinton Street in downtown Brooklyn, circa 1999. My one-bedroom apartment was on the third floor. With few major possessions beyond a bed, a small kitchen table, and a pull-out couch, the apartment seemed downright spacious compared to a college dorm. Even after we added a few tasteful touches from IKEA, I felt like I lived in a palace. Even if it was only eight hundred square feet.
At the time, it didn’t register that the apartment was no-frills in just about every sense of the word.
For starters, there was no doorman. No dishwasher. No central air conditioning. No in-unit washer-dryer. Did I mention there was no elevator? But the rent was so reasonable, it didn’t seem to matter. Besides, I was young and resourceful. I quickly learned I could carry two to four bags of groceries at a time, depending on whether detergent was involved.
So how did I become a control superfreak, you may be wondering? Well, let me tell you.
Out like a light
Law school was all-consuming. I basically attended classes, studied, exercised, ate, and slept.
As one can imagine, I spent a lot of time in my apartment. One tiny perk of the building was the washer/dryer in the basement. It was during one ill-fated laundry cycle in my second week of law school that I became a control superfreak.
I recall that it was a weekend afternoon. My sister was staying over at her boyfriend’s apartment. I was busy studying when I decided I’d throw in a load of laundry.
I assume it’s because the building was built in the 1840s, or perhaps just poorly designed, but the light switch for the basement was located to the right of the doorframe. It wasn’t located in a spot that was easily reachable inside the basement, which, frankly, seemed to make more sense. There was also a latch on the outside part of the door. When I moved in, the unhelpful building superintendent was emphatic that the basement door be locked. I wish he had been just as emphatic in responding to my repair requests.
When I got down to the basement, I saw that my brusque, unfriendly downstairs neighbor from 4A was finishing her dryer load. I smiled as I put my clothes into the washing machine. Four A didn’t acknowledge my friendly gesture. If she had smiled back, I might’ve said “have a good day” or “happy folding” as she left. Instead, we ignored each other. Without giving me a second glance, 4A hastily grabbed her laundry basket, headed up the stairs, then shut the door and turned out the light. In the twenty steps from the dryer to the top of the stairs, 4A had somehow forgotten I was still in the laundry room!
Kept in the dark
With my wash whirring in the background, I blindly stumbled up the steps. The basement sure was dark. Perhaps 4A just turned the light out by mistake. I prayed she didn’t latch the door.
But when I got to the top of the stairs and fumbled for the doorknob, I discovered that my prayer had gone unanswered.
And now, I was trapped in a pitch-black basement.
“Hey!” I shouted while simultaneously banging on the basement door. “Hey! You locked the door.” Four A must not have heard me. I banged once more on the heavy door. Darn you, pre-war construction!
Since these were the early days of mobile phones, I had left my small brick of a cell phone back in my apartment. What would I need it for? It’s not like phone flashlights had been invented yet.
I continued banging on the door, hoping someone would hear me. Unfortunately for me, the building was a small, ten-unit building. It wasn’t a heavily trafficked high-rise. Our no-frills building also had zero security features. I could be trapped in the basement until another resident wanted to do their laundry or my mother reported me missing. That would take two days.
I tried staying calm. I blamed 4A for her stupidity. I didn’t blame myself. Though the control superfreak in me now would say, “Steph, you saw the latch on the outside of the door, how could you not have accounted for this possibility? Why didn’t you wedge something in the door just in case?” Twenty-twenty hindsight sure is a bear (or another “b” word, but I’m keeping this blog PG).
Hitting a wall
Being trapped in the basement for nearly an hour was excruciating. And not just because I could’ve put my laundry into the dryer if only I had brought down more quarters.
I was despondent. How long would it take for someone to come into the building? And would they even hear me? I sat on the top stair, needing to take a break from my banging and shouting. Since I couldn’t see anything, I didn’t care if the step was dirty. I listened intently for the sound of the front door opening.
After several more minutes had gone by, I finally heard the creak of the front door. I jumped up and began banging on the basement door again.
“Help! Can somebody help me? I’m locked in the basement! Help!” I nearly cried when I heard footsteps approaching the basement. I kept banging until the latch slid open.
A handsome man with dark, curly hair opened the door. Frankly, an axe murderer could’ve opened the door, and I would’ve been relieved. I had no idea who this man was, but I was effusive in my gratitude.
“Thank you so much. I was accidentally locked in the basement by a neighbor.” Even though I was furious at 4A, I felt bad implicating her for the crime of false imprisonment. I’d also throw in negligence, for good measure. (See that? My law school education has finally come in handy.)
Better safe than sorry
I wish I could say that the man who liberated me from the basement and I became great friends, or that we fell in love and got married. Come on, this is a blog, not a romance novel!
Actually, I am pretty sure he was a visitor, and I never saw him again. But after that dreadful experience in the basement, I became a control superfreak in many aspects of my life. Mind you, there was nothing that amounted to an unhealthy level of obsession. At least I don’t think so. Just mainly being extra careful about things that non-control superfreaks wouldn’t even give a second thought to.
For instance, I am constantly making lists for things I need to do (or creating extensive outlines when writing). I pack extra clothes for a trip in case the flight is delayed or my bags are lost. (Both of which have happened to me.) I anticipate my family being hungry/thirsty and carry both a pantry and a refrigerator in my pocketbook—well, smaller equivalents. I bring a book with me whenever I have an appointment in case I have to wait. (OK, this one is purely selfish. I’m always looking for an excuse to read.)
I could go on and on, but I think you get the point. Deep down inside, I know that letting go of my need for control doesn’t mean I’m careless—I just have a hard time accepting the unpredictable ways the world works. Though I wish it weren’t so, it’s hard to turn off the control superfreak once it’s been turned on.
And just so you can have closure to my being locked in the basement (pun intended), two years after I finished law school, I was so tired of all the things that kept going wrong in my apartment—and still scarred by my basement imprisonment—I decided to move in with my now-husband. He lived in a more upscale doorman building, though not by much. But, I’ll save those stories for future blogs.
Do you recall any childhood memories that had a strong impact on you later in life? Please share your stories with me in the comments section.
