I woke up expecting a crappy day, and it delivered. My Tribeca website is hacked, with no end in sight. Adam is leaving tonight on a business trip to London, and I feel more than ever like I don't go anywhere anymore. (And I'm a travel blogger.) And it's raining, which means not only do I have to do all the dog-walking, I have to do it in the rain. I was deep into self-pity when, en route to my favorite café in an effort to try and perk myself up, I stepped in dog shit.
I stepped in dog shit a few months ago—after having gone many years without doing it—in similar circumstances: Adam was away and I was walking to Soho for dinner, and 25 yards from the door, smoosh! I was left with no choice but to walk all the way home because I was wearing sneakers and you can't trail that stench into a restaurant, or even a cab. I'm not sure I've ever wished I lived in the suburbs more, because certain situations cry out for a backyard and a hose.
But this morning was different. Serendipitously, two unpleasantnesses—rain and dog shit—canceled each other out: I splashed my right foot around in various puddles, like a kid stuck repeating one step of the hokey-pokey, until all traces of the offending dog were gone, and I bought my cappuccino and came home.
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