Stepping into dog poop is one of life’s greatest admonitions for ingratitude.
Seriously. Have you ever stayed up into the wee hours of the morning working on a tough assignment, then had to wake up for work in like forty-five minutes? You’re cranky and exhausted as you shut down your alarm. You roll out of bed and head to the shower only to discover that the pipes are dry. You call your neighbour who confirms that there’s no water in the building because of blah blah blah, which you don’t care about because you have to shower with a cup of cold water. You get past that hurdle, walk into a mist of your best perfume, and put on your powder blue suit. As you “smize” in the mirror, you notice the long white streak going down your right sleeve, something you failed to see when you sleepwalked through doing your laundry a few nights before. The new outfit you choose is wrinkly but you have absolutely no time to iron it. You gather your things, run outside, sweat pouring down your back, pondering why nobody left you an inheritance and absent-mindedly step into dog poop. Suddenly, between the expletives and the smell, everything that went before has paled in comparison to this atrocity. Perspective, people, perspective.