How long do we get to be happy? What I mean is, having wished for something and got it, how long are we allowed to simply appreciate the thing we now have before either beginning to resent it or to wish for something else? And the answer is: two weeks. At least that's the answer for me, in the case of the Toronto apartment where I am now living after more than a decade in a small town. Two weeks and counting, that is. I still get a kick out of walking downstairs and seeing Riverdale spread out before me like a deboned pork roast unrolled on a butcher block (probably the wrong image, since the area seems to have more than its share of vegans). I still enjoy hopping on my bike to head downtown, or wandering over to a coffee shop with a view of the Don Valley and skyline -- that's it in the picture there. I still marvel at how few kilometres I have put on my car in two weeks (like, 25). My apartment, though not perhaps hot, is still a nice girl -- the mild romance has not gone out of our relationship. (In fact with the pictures up she looks kind of dashing.) I have less space for things than I did in the house in Cobourg, but then I have fewer things. And with space at a premium I can ask myself if I really need something and if the answer is no I can throw it out. I am not right in the heart of the happening downtown, but I am about 100 kilometres closer to it than I was two weeks ago. There is not a fantastic bar right around the corner, but that may be just as well. When I think about all the ways life is not working out -- from global warming to impending war to embarrassing local political leaders -- I am doing okay. Nothing much to complain of. Oooh, except those bastards at the Cobourg cable company. Would you believe they are trying to bill me for my old TV box and modem even though I already mailed them back????
I know, eh? Cogeco, you are getting a piece of my mind on Monday, I can tell you.