Once in a while, I come up with a great idea. Bingo! One came to me.
I live in a two-story home. There are 13 steps that take me to the second floor. For the first time yesterday, I counted the number of trips I take up the stairs in a single day. Rather shocking, but it was a whopping 31 times. Using my powers of inductive reasoning, I figure I go down them about the same number of times. I do this purposely as an outstanding form of exercise.
That’s a total lie. It’s a result of how my keys, my wallet, my glasses, my briefcase and my cell phone are always on the opposite floor I happen to be on. I am a disorderly, forgetful person and darn proud of it.
Back to my great idea. I’m calling each stair by the name of a person, alive or deceased, who brings a smile to my face, someone I admire. For example, Sherry is step one, step five is my old friend, Dr. Frank Tate, and step 13 is my mom, Irene. Until I get it down, I’m placing a little card on the side of each stair with photos of my pals looking up at me.
Why do I feel so fortunate and blessed? Because I could live in a 10-story home and still run out of loving stairs to name.
As they say, “My lucky stairs!”