You're screwed.
Especially when all your friends with keys to your apartment have left the city for the weekend and your landlord's home phone number is in the other business card case, which is sitting on the kitchen table (next to your keys).
It's a Friday, it's been a long week, and I'm looking forward to going home, putting on sweats and becoming one with my sofa. I pack up my bag, stick my hand in the key slot -- shit. No keys. I figure I'll head home and see if the neighbors have my landlord's home phone number, then beg him to drive to the city on a Friday night (also a Red Sox game night) to bring me my keys. Or, I could attempt to break into my apartment. But then again, I really don't what to know if it's possible to break into my apartment.
On my walk home I pass by a few friends' employers and realize one of them is still working! God bless your girlfriends, who in the face of a crisis know exactly what to say,
"Why don't you go pick out a couple bottles of wine and meet me back here at 5 p.m."
I spent the night about 30 minutes outside of the city. Not quite the Friday night I had planned, but thank goodness for friends who know where to find a corkscrew and a clean glass.
I also learned a lesson: I am not a suburban girl. While I appreciate the space, the trees, the backyard BBQ and the peace and quiet, I crave the city.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
1 comment:
Wine solves everything.
Post a Comment