Thirty steps.
Will you take them?
Thirty concrete steps up from the street to the front door.
The house is built on a hillside, a steep hill, a long way up, built overlooking the entire neighborhood.
Thirty steps.
Will you take them?
Will you climb all the way up to ring that doorbell and leave a few words printed on a piece of paper with your picture in hopes you’ll get their vote?
Thirty steps.
That’s a long way up. It’s the equivalent of three flights going up from one floor to another in a house like this, each step nominally seven inches high. That means two hundred and ten inches overall conservatively and that means eighteen feet elevation from where I’m standing to way up there, give or take.
You really want to do it?
Wouldn’t it be easier to relax, take it easy and avoid the effort?
You’ve already come a long way.
It’s like this.
If you don’t do it what you didn’t do will bother you all the way down the hill, all the way down the rest of the street with every step you take. The downhill will be an apology for not giving the summit your best. You’ll regret giving up. No one will know but you, but that is exactly what you’ve done or failed to do if you don’t climb those thirty steps or is it thirty-one or is it thirty-two?
Or is it more?
What if the one vote you needed is the one vote all the way up there at the top?
Did I ring that doorbell?
Did I climb those concrete steps?
Oh, come on now.