I had a warm fuzzy moment about my apartment today. Actually I was at work. I keep a picture of my residence on my white board above my computer. (Wow, that’s an incredibly dorky admittance.)
I love where I live. Love. Love. Love. Sure, it’s tiny. It has linoleum. And no one in their right mind should ever open my microwave. I’m not sure what the last girl had going on in there, but I’ve never been able to get it quite right. My dishwasher is crap and when it’s windy outside there is a wretched noise in my kitchen. But it’s my little world of bliss.
That’s why I was so surprised when after Gertie and I went on a run today, I couldn’t get in my front door. As in, my key wouldn’t work. It dawned on me that my front mat was missing, and so was hot neighbor’s, but once the management took the mats away to deal with a maintenance problem. I just figured it had happened again. But then I looked up at the number and realized I was at the wrong apartment.