When bird poop falls on us, is the sky falling? Or are we the instigators of our own apocalypses and happily-ever-afters?
On our honeymoon, my husband and I stopped for a glass of wine at a picturesque outdoor café in Old Montreal. I’d had some challenges — my luggage had been lost for three days, plus I’d caught a cold — but now a celebration was in order. My suitcases and I were reunited; the cold, while uncomfortable, wasn’t unmanageable. With judicious napping, I could still play tourist.
Our glasses clinked. “L’chaim,” said my husband.
“L — ewwww, oh, my God,” I wailed, starting up out of my chair and racing to the Ladies. My skirt was a mess.
What next? I wondered as I turned on the tap.
The soap dispenser was empty.
When I returned to our table, I took a long slug of wine.
“Word to the wise,” I remarked as my husband and I eyed the wet brown splotch flaked with white towel-flecks on my skirt. “Water alone doesn’t do shit for bird poop. I’ll have to change.”
I did change my wardrobe…but it took me thirty-fours years to realize that what truly needed changing was my inner ‘wardrobe.’