If I'm not too late, I cry, "Shit!", lean my bike against the hallway wall, shrug my pack to the floor, fight with the broken zipper, jam the unwanted newspaper inside, fight with the broken zipper again, chase the cat, who is now halfway down the long hall, rolling in ecstacy on his back (I swear, there is something in that carpet!), pick him up and bring him back to my apartment where I drop him to the floor and swiftly close the door on him, the pick up and don my backpack, the realize I don't remember in which pocket I dropped my keys -
- Oh wait! I left them on the counter inside ...
If it is too late, I simply curse its prescence, make sure both my bike's tires run it over, and hope a neighbour decides to steal it.
No such luck tonight. But sometimes it's worth it.
The Star's advice columnist, "Ellie", is one feature I regularly avoid. Her advice is bland and so politically correct she makes "Dear Abby" seem like Dan Savage on steroids. Most of her advice consists of suggesting the letter-writer seek therapy.
But sometimes you luck out. How about the last letter in today's column?
QI'm a single, successful woman age 41, dating this great 45-year-old man for a year. But he hasn't worked for eight months and has lived with his mother rent-free since his late-20s. That doesn't help his motivation.
Am I wasting my time waiting for him to get a good job and hoping he'll leave his mother and live with me?
The mind boggles. I mean, really ... and I thought I'd been naive.