Crankypants

Yesterday, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. I didn’t think there was a wrong bedside when on vacation in Italy, but I found it. I hit my head on the stupid low stupid ceiling in our apartment, then I took a stupid cold shower, because there was no hot water in this stupid 100-year-old building. I tried to make myself feel better by heading down to the delicious corner bakery for some pastries and cappuccino, but my pants were really tight, setting me off, yet again, in ultra crankypants mode, and I as I hit street level, I realized it was Sunday, which meant EVERYthing was closed. First world problems, right? I’m an asshole. “My designer jeans are too tight and my favorite Italian bakery is closed.” That’s what I just said. So, after settling for a half-as-good and twice as expensive pastry and cappuccino, I trudged back to the apartment, where I thought about how many keys it was going to take (3) before I actually got inside the buidling, which annoyed me. As I crammed my too-tight crankypants self into the “lift” and nibbled on my that’s-why-my-pants-are-too-tight-croissant, I stopped.

A month, or probably, more likely, a few days from now, I’ll be sitting in my cube at work. My pants will probably still be too tight, but my fat ass won’t still be in Italy. I won’t hit my head on our 10-foot ceilings at home, but I won’t have a lovely Ialian bakery steps away from my front door (OK, that’s for the best…). I won’t have a spectacular view or be 3 blocks away from a magnificent Piazza.

So now, as it rains and the ceiling of our little apartment leaks in three places, as I look out at the Duomo and curse the one day of crappy weather we’ve had in two weeks, I think I’ll just take it all in and be happy to just be. Right where I am. Or, maybe I’ll even go for a walk in the rain. And get some gelato. I don’t have to actually button my top button on the plane, right?

twisu

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