I am 1985 Allison Reynolds lost on the set of Mean Girls.

Let’s preface this rant with the truth that I love my apartment. It houses my favorite office and is located in a gorgeous spot. I have no complaints.

But if, as my kids like to say, someone grabbed me by the throat and made me choose a complaint, it would be the number of people with their faces in their phones who freeze anytime our life paths cross.

Before you say, “Oh Tracy, you sound like an older woman living in a young complex,” I will argue that not all phone-facers are young. Some of them may even be GenXers, although I doubt that because we’re, well, not this.

“Excuse me,” I say last night, Jack at my side as I attempt to exit the elevator on my floor and stop short at a man and a woman standing no more than two feet from the opening metal door.

Nothing. Both are on their phones, but the hulking boyfriend glances up. He steps aside and touches his, I’m assuming girlfriend, at her waist.

She’s still standing in front of me but looks up in that disappointed “Yes, I guess still water is fine if that’s all you have” way, barely steps toward her boyfriend, and returns to her phone.

Hello? Don’t make me sing that Ludacris song.

I clear my throat because I have Jack and need more room. She appears genuinely shocked that someone has not simply diverted their path around the gloriousness that is her Lululemon “fit.” Then comes the furrowed brow as she glances up again.

It is an elevator. There’s like a five-foot path, and you’re right in the damn middle. Even if I wanted to go around you, I can’t. Step off Regina George.

Lips purse next, fingers still managing to finish up whatever pertinent business was on her phone.

Jack starts to whine. I take a step forward. Boyfriend touches Regina at the same waist point again as if he knows what’s about to happen and doesn’t want this incident to ruin their smoothie date.

I’m not a tiny person. I walk with purpose. When Jack and I are together, we’re a force that says, “Please leave us alone and please stay on your side of life.” Regina doesn’t speak Jack.

So, I barrel out of the elevator. I tried to be polite, but you left me no choice. I managed to scooch past and keep Jack from sniffing anyone’s butt.

I’m met with a gasp. Regina’s hand, the one not clutching her phone, tilts at the wrist as she flounders to acknowledge another person and move.

“My God,” was all I heard as I finally made it off the elevator and noticed Boyfriend now holding her in comfort.

I smiled as I unlocked my door. Next time I’m shaking my dandruff on her.

That’s all from the laundry room. Counting Sheep.

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