I’m sitting at my desk right now, giggling my fool head off.
And no, it’s not because of the German in the speedo who jumped on the ice. Well, maybe it is a wee bit. Mein arsch!
But mostly it’s because, like out of some sort of romcom, my life has turned to complete lunacy since landing at Pearson in Toronto on Tuesday afternoon.
(That Murphy of Murphy’s Law is Irish, yes?)
Exhibit A: My website is broken. Oh yes. Of course it is. I came home with so many wonderful stories to tell, photos to share, things to say…and yet. Two of the ugliest words in the English language: Database error. So, now, instead of telling you about the time I went to a black tie event and sat at the head table with Roger Sterling and Pete Campbell dead-ringers whilst wearing something, erm, obviously not black tie, I’m whining on twitter about website trouble.
I am nothing if not a truth teller.
(Where is my Don Draper?)
Exhibit B: My gym is broken. Oh, remember that time that my trainer stopped showing up for my 5:30am training even though I managed to be motivated to get my arse out of bed and show up? (Mein arsch!)Â And remember when I went to the two beefy management guys and raised a little
hell heck and signed up to train with a brand-new, reliable trainer with less personal and emotional baggage right after my trip to Ireland? And remember when I showed up for a 7am training session and the new trainer didn’t show up? This really is doing wonders for my motivation—my motivation to QUIT LA FITNESS.
In any good romantic comedy, the answer would be simple, of course. The troubled down-on-her-luck heroine would have an epiphany, while emotionally eating her way through an entire tube of cookie dough and buying a brand-new pair of knee-high boots (read: this is obviously in my future), and realize that she must get back on a plane to Dublin or Shannon (whichever is quicker and cheaper), post-haste. To the tune of a really good indie-folk soundtrack, naturally.
Don’t think I haven’t been looking at real estate in Ireland.
But, you know, since my life is not something that anyone is going to pay good money to see (even if you might be tempted to watch the hijinks of my life unfold in front of you with a tub full of popcorn and some peanut m&ms that now I can no longer eat because hot damn I am allergic), I have to suck it up, wipe away the pity tears, get a good haircut
Because there’s really no point in doing anything else.
But I’m giggling in an Irish accent, so at least it’s something, right?