One Flight Up

It seems like most of my life I’ve lived on the second floor.  Even my days (and nights) in the U.S. Army I was, for some strange reason, inevitably billeted one floor up.  Subsequently, and you can count this in decades rather than years, my various abodes  in San Francisco, Sausalito, Mill Valley (California) and even in Brooklyn (New York) have been elevated to some degree or other and  my various living arrangements have always required surmounting stairs, 15, 16, or 17 at a time.  It never really occurred to me before my latest incarnation, when I again took up residence on the second floor of my new apartment (Ft. Lauderdale, Florida), that this was the case.  I’ve always taken steps to make sure I’ve found just the right apartment but, until now, I didn’t view it as a habit.  You can take it from me, it’s tough on the knees but the views are better.