Posted by: jt | January 4, 2008

welcome to my world (it amuses me)

Arriving home last night, exhausted and spacey, I unlocked the deadbolt to my apartment, turned the doorknob and…the doorknob doesn’t turn.

We never lock the bottom lock. Never. As in…I’m not sure where that key is. It was just an extra key on the keyring that I would mix up with the deadbolt key, so I took it off. I’m sure it’s in a cup with pens…somewhere. Or maybe in with the lesser-jewelry that doesn’t get worn? In a dish of useless coins? It’s in there, somewhere, for when I need to give it back. In there being the (in)operative phrase.

I rap on the door, wondering who my roommate has brought home that unknowingly locked me out…and if I’m interrupting something. But hi, I need to get in. No answer. I knock again. Nada. This doesn’t make sense.

Standing with my hand on a knob that won’t turn, it slowly dawns on me that the maintenance guy must have come in to fix the drip in the shower and…yeah. Apparently he thought we weren’t quite secure enough. So, back downstairs I go to the caretaker’s office to plead dumb. Hi, I have two of my keys, but not the third one. Yes. I’m dumb.

The very nice caretaker’s wife laughs and lets me in.

Inside my apartment, I sit down to take off my boots and am stymied yet again. Left one, off. Right one…stuck. My weary brain struggles to process: stuck.

I’ve had these boots for six years. They were my first real shoe-splurge and I bought them in Vienna. They’re my babies. Scuffed and battered, they’ve traversed the Austrian Alps, tripped over rubble in the Roman Forum and stood very, very still in Kafka’s house. They’ve been around – and it shows. I fixed the tightening mechanism when it snapped on the right one, I don’t wear them in the rain because somehow my feet get wet and I will rue the day when the soles wear through, but the zippers…have never been a problem.

Zipper-pull in hand, I tug. And I tug. And I tug. It’s not moving. I gingerly try to slide my heel out. They’re soft leather and hit just above the ankle, but the zipper is jammed around two inches from the top and…these are my babies.

I stare at my right foot in a daze, as though it’s sprouted an appendage to call its very own, while visions of sleeping with my boot on float through my head. I think through my wardrobe and contemplate how many different outfits I can design around these boots because it’s not coming off.

Momentarily defeated, I turn to my laptop for solace (or just to check my Google Alerts), only to find that the router connecting to the internet got pissy and needs to be restarted. I one-boot it to my roommate’s room (home of said router) and flip the switch. Waiting for the connection to reset, I stare at my beloved boot and realize, much as I love them, I can’t go through life wearing just these boots. And certainly not just that sock. Ew.

I bow my head and close my eyes, unwittingly in prayer-pose, and slowly-slowly-slowly stretch the much-abused leather around and over my heel. Seemingly unharmed, I resist the urge to toss my baby aside and, instead, spend the next ten minutes unjamming the zipper, at one point contemplating the use of teeth. Finally, boot salvaged (though now a little less-lined), I slide on pajamas and fall into bed to watch Obama and Huckabee defy the pundits in Iowa.

In the shower this morning, I realize that, even though someone has obviously worked on it, the drip is, somehow, now worse instead of better. Maybe they’ll be back tomorrow to fix it and lock me out again…because I really can’t be bothered to find that key.

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Responses

  1. first!

  2. Locked out? Of your apartment? By the caretaker?
    NEVAR. ;)

    But srsly, yay for having a blog. <3


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