Metropolitan Diary: Beware Wet Paint Having delayed doing laundry, I found my big brown laundry bag was overstuffed as I dragged it onto the elevator in my Upper West Side apartment building. Riding down, my neighbor warned me, "Be careful; the floor was recently painted." She got off in the lobby. I continued to the empty basement where a sign stated, "No strollers or carts," but nothing about foot traffic. Across the shiny steel-gray floor was a line of square plastic blocks, leading from the storage area. I briefly paused, then gathered my hefty bag and stepped onto the glistening concrete floor. Instantly, my feet stuck to the painted floor. The elevator snapped closed. I yanked my flip-flop-clad feet and pried them away from the sticky floor along with a swatch of gray paint. I hopped onto one of the blocks, placed my laundry bag atop another and lightly trotted across the floor - schtuck, schtuck, schtuck - to press the elevator button and then back to my perch. I bolted to the elevator when it arrived, but after the first step I lost one of my flip-flops, landing barefoot in the wet paint. A dog walker with three big, black, hairy dogs stood in the elevator watching my personal chaos in silence. I dropped the bag in the elevator, asked him to hold the door and retrieved my pink flip-flop, ripping off another swatch of gray paint from the floor, which now looked like a puzzle missing a few pieces. Standing on one foot, still holding my laundry detergent, quarters and paint-covered flip-flop, I shook my head and sighed: "I'm in big trouble. The super is going to kill me! The dog walker looked over, shrugged his shoulders and said, "Eh, it's just a floor!"