Why do I always get asked for directions? It happens several times a week.
Is this train going east? Is this the Sidney Smith building? How do I get to the Kensington Market? (The last question was just this afternoon — and yes, I knew where it was….just over that way a bit.)
Why do I eat eat candy when I know it makes me feel unwell every time. There is no time eating candy does not result in some type of distress. Sometimes mild, sometimes not-so mild, but always there. (I am eating Bottle Caps as I type.)
Why have I not implemented a proper filing system for all my paperwork. A box under my desk and a basket on my credenza do not count as a system. (At least it’s hidden away. My mess is secret yet intense.)
Why do I continue to exchange pleasantries with my rather chilly neighbour in the elevator. (Exchange, of course, is the wrong word as that would involve some level of reciprocity from Ms. Frosty Pants.)
Why do I read books — lots of them — that are not on my must-read list for my book clubs. (I do need to read a few within the next month, yet I put them off, despite the fact that I will probably enjoy them.)
Why is everything in my living room a shade of brownish/beige/cream. (It is soothing and I like to relax at home, but that doesn’t mean I couldn’t buy some pillows that are not — well — not off-whitish. (Would blue kill me? Red?)