The Little Things
Disclaimer: This post is long and boring and I can pontificate like a mother fucker and it took all my brain cells so I might not be able to ever post again. Or at least not until tomorrow. If you’re lucky.
Last year, actually on this exact date, I called my mother from a pay phone in Sol in tears. Ok, fine, I was sobbing. Nothing bad had happened, despite debilitating homesickness, which led me to believe that everyone in my program hated me and/or wanted me dead. That said, there was and still is only one thing that can completely cure me and make me feel invincible; a new pair of shoes. Sadly, the largest shoe store in the world, didn’t have a franchise in Madrid, so instead I resorted to El Cortes Ingles (a shoe store, clothing, overpriced MAC and Clinique, a fucking grocery store). And upon my first visit to this mega uber conglomerate place, I searched high and low for a pair of size 42 (11 US) shoes. And. There. Were. None. NONE. Which then led to the infamous – at least between me and Peg – phone call, in which I cried real tears “I waaaaaannnt to go h-h-home, becauuuuuse th-th-there arrrrrre nooo size 11 shoes! I h-h-hatttte this f-f-f-ucking place” Or something relatively close to that. And Peg consoled as best she could from an ocean away and we both determined that I would stay until mid-February and that she would send me some of my shoes. Needless to say, the next day I bought the cutest pair of *cough, cough* 80 Euro green flats with pink buttons (note to self, post a picture of said shoes, lest readers will think you have crappy taste in shoes, which good Lord no) and I decided that yes in fact, Spain was not an evil country and they do have shoes in my size.
Also note to self: you are a childish whiny baby who maybe should’ve stayed in the US to continue with year three of therapy. Baby.
You see, I have this uncanny ability to become encumbered with guilt and tears and general unpleasantness that best be saved for days when my Aunt Flo is visiting. Little stupid things set me off, I mean need I remind you of the ipod/coach incident or see above, I cried and threatened to leave Spain because there were no shoes in my size. Sometimes, I wish I were joking when admitting these things, but sadly, it’s all true.
Too often I let myself become defined by stupid meaningless events when I am very well aware that the minute I start to complain about my life, things get better. I’m so ever loving lucky in that regard and instead of appreciating it, I bitch. Why? You ask. Because I can and that’s just me.
Once again, after weeks of boredom and malaise and the bitching, Oh God, the bitching, I have had this glorious epiphany that says “yes, Heather, things will be fine”. And to the delight of my many (all 6 of you) readers I am very well aware that at 22 I do not need to have the answers to everything. I’m at a time in my life where everything is becoming relatively new again, which, I feel, gives me some entitlement to bitch and complain and get all “woe is me, who cares about the poor people I’m out of pudding”. Because that’s how I’ve been feeling for the past six months. I’ve been thrown out into the
Therefore instead of incessant crapology, I will instead bask in the little things. Like living in a place where I can golf on January 28th (be jealous) and I have friends that make me pee in my pants laugh and I can be as misanthropic as I would like and I can drink and eat Five Guys and still lose weight (once again, be jealous, metabolism kicks ass), and a mother who calls me, just because she’s bored at work and knows the meaning of a good pedicure. Yes there are other good things but I enjoy being elusive so I’m not telling. But I will say this, I am one lucky little girl and I should probably start acting like it.
P.S. I’m in a good mood today, so this might change, like umm tomorrow. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.