I’m convinced that the family living in the apartment below mine thinks that door slamming is an Olympic sport and has been preparing for the summer games the last two months. There really is no other explanation for the incessant slamming of their fucking door. My girlfriend can attest to the fact that I haven’t gone crazy — OK, well, let’s not go that far — but, she does agree that something weird is going on down there.
There are days when the door is slammed every five minutes and for an hour at a time. When I say slammed, I’m not talking about rushing out of the house and pushing the door a little harder than usual; I’m talking about rearing up, yelling to the rest of the family, Watch this!, and trying to get the door to move in a full 180° arc through the doorway. After which, they open the door, get the scores from the rest of the family, and then go back to improving their technique. There is no other explanation.
It’s got to the point now that every time they slam the door, I yell Slam it! at the top of my lungs. I’m usually sitting right by my door because that is where my computer desk is and so I think there’s a good chance they can hear me. I hope so. To be safe though, and to make sure they know I recognize their incredible door-slamming talents, I think I’m going to start slamming my door as soon as the aftershocks of their efforts reach me. Every time. Hell, given the frequency of their family tradition it will probably make for a pretty good workout.