Let me set the scene: you’re in a shopping centre and you notice a tall, confident woman striding towards the exit. Her gait speaks to you: ‘I am intelligent, successful, funny, charming – nothing in the world can break my stride’.
But then, suddenly, as she gets closer to the exit, something does; her stride seems to slow, to falter, to seem…less sure.
Her brows furrow in concentration, her eyes flit nervously from side to side and she bites her lip as if she’s performing a complex set of algorithms in her head.
As she reaches the exit, panic races across her face. She hesitantly raises her hand and pushes her palm flat against the door and….nothing. The door doesn’t budge.
Her self-confidence melts and puddles around her feet; her cheeks flush with embarrassment as if she’s peed herself in public. She reads the large letters P…U…L…L…plastered across the door as she fumbles for the handle, prises the door open and runs. But it’s too late, it’s over. Her life is over.
Does the above scenario ring any (door) bells for you? Do you ever get that sense of dread—that feeling of impending doom—as you approach a door in a public place and you cannot ascertain whether, to open the door, you need to push or pull?
For me, the fear of choosing the wrong option engulfs me. As I approach the door, as it casts its ominous, rectangular pall upon me, I slow my step (but my heart rate quickens!) and I furtively glance around to try and work out how to get the door to open.
Often, the door itself provides tell-tale signs. A rectangular chrome square on the edge of the door implies ‘push’; an elongated handle on the door usually suggests ‘pull’. But what if there are both? Who are these door architects that are screwing with me? Are they sitting in their offices giggling at my expense? Or maybe they themselves are banging their heads against a wall, becoming unhinged, trying to work out how to design a less terrifying door.
When I can’t work out how to open the door before I get there, my stomach knots in fear that I will get it wrong. I will push when I should pull. Or I will pull when I should push. Sometimes I even do the right thing – I push. Or I pull. But still nothing. Why? Because that’s when there are two doors to an opening and I choose the one that happens to be locked or bolted into the ground.
When I can’t open a door, I might as well have walked into a pole (I have done it) or fallen down a flight of stairs (many times). I feel like a complete oaf, incapable of navigating the most simple, everyday activities. If I can’t even open a door literally, how will doors ever open for me in the metaphorical sense?
And this is precisely what I thought when I failed to correctly determine the ‘push or pull’ mechanics of an interview room door recently. As I stood there, puzzled and embarrassed, having both pushed and pulled unsuccessfully, the guy who interviewed me finally piped up, ‘aye, it’s locked, you have to use the door next to it.’
Even worse, because he had a thick Scottish accent, I didn’t understand what he said and so, naturally, I nodded, ‘oh, uh-huh,’ and pushed the same door again. He finally got up and opened the door for me and all I could think as I left was, ‘well, that door has definitely closed; I might as well have let it hit me on the way out.’
And my ego is still smarting from the bruise.
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