I’m guessing elevators these days are programmable, but pity some older, elegant hotel with analog cars, leisurely gliding down the tower, only to stop at each floor’s down-button request, open up the door, reveal the one masked rider shaking her Karen head “no!” at anyone brave enough to test the six foot rule?
This is turning us all into suspected agents of projectile vomiting.
When I see social distance markers on the floor, I’ve taken to performing a little military flourish on each of the Fauci stepping stones as the line proceeds. The road to absurdity is so much easier when there are so many absurd cues. If we must go mad, let’s dance our way there.