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Of all the things I don't do well, being wrong is what I'm best at being bad at.
Unfortunately, I'm wrong a lot.
Even, it turns out, about which apartment building I belong in.
We live in a dark brown brownstone on a street with approximately three other dark brown brownstones (and other light brown ones, pinkish ones, greyish ones, etc.). For the first few months, it was easy to tell which building was ours (Apart from looking at the address. That's too easy.) because there was a bike chained up out front. But, once the weather improved, whoever owns that bike must have gotten on it and decided not to come back because all that's left is the lock.
Sometimes, I go up the wrong stairs and even into the wrong vestibule before I realize I'm not actually home.
Take, for instance, the other day when Tiffany and I got into a fight on our run.
It went something like this:
(heading out of Central Park onto a certain street)
Me (exhausted): "Why are we going this way?"
Tiffany: "Why does it matter?"
Me: "Because my way is faster."
Tiffany: "But why does it matter?"
Me: (silent treatment)
By the time we made it to our street, I was a few angry paces ahead, so I was first to slow to a stop and walk (read: stomp) up our stairs.
"Where are you going?" Tiffany called, as she walked past me to our real stairs.
Why does it matter?
Unfortunately, I'm wrong a lot.
Even, it turns out, about which apartment building I belong in.
We live in a dark brown brownstone on a street with approximately three other dark brown brownstones (and other light brown ones, pinkish ones, greyish ones, etc.). For the first few months, it was easy to tell which building was ours (Apart from looking at the address. That's too easy.) because there was a bike chained up out front. But, once the weather improved, whoever owns that bike must have gotten on it and decided not to come back because all that's left is the lock.
Sometimes, I go up the wrong stairs and even into the wrong vestibule before I realize I'm not actually home.
Take, for instance, the other day when Tiffany and I got into a fight on our run.
It went something like this:
(heading out of Central Park onto a certain street)
Me (exhausted): "Why are we going this way?"
Tiffany: "Why does it matter?"
Me: "Because my way is faster."
Tiffany: "But why does it matter?"
Me: (silent treatment)
By the time we made it to our street, I was a few angry paces ahead, so I was first to slow to a stop and walk (read: stomp) up our stairs.
"Where are you going?" Tiffany called, as she walked past me to our real stairs.
Why does it matter?
Rebequita , too funny!!!!
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