I know how ya feel, Daniel Powter.

 Not gunna lie-- yesterday was a bad day.
 And not the kind when one thing in particular sorta sets the tone for the rest of your day, like burning your tongue on hot coffee or a bird pooping on your shoulder.

The kind where it feels like when things can't get any worse... they do. Like, maybe you burn your tongue, stain your white blouse, trip on your front steps, and then a bird poops on you. 

So forgive me if I vent. Blog is the new shrink.
And trust me, you're going to want to read this whole thing.

It all started in the morning. I woke up at about 8, giving myself plenty of time to get ready and be in Paris by 9h50, the time of our rendez-vous. I've been sort of a stickler about time because a) the French hate when you're late and b) you just never know what fun detours might pop up along the way.

I caught 8h40 train, and gave myself a little pat on the back for being early. Bad idea. The commute was already rather uncomfortable because 8h-9h30 is rush hour, "les heures de pointe," in Paris. Needless to say the train was packed like sardines. Perfect time for something to go wrong. A mere two minutes from my destination, the train stops. And stayed put-- for nearly 20 minutes. A rapid apology or explanation blew through the speakers, which made everyone groan...and which I didn't understand a word of, so I just kinda groaned along with the crowd.

Seconds passed like minutes which passed like hours. Everyone was sweating, the windows were fogging, people were definitely farting. All of a sudden, a commotion. I heard people yelling and realized that the man standing three feet away from me had just collapsed. The car was so packed that no one even knew what to do. About 15 seconds later he came to. Various commuters had found him some water, opened the windows, and gave him a seat. He seemed to be okay, and about five minutes later we proceeded into the station. Well that was enough excitement for one day, I thought.

Phew, all that and I was still 15 minutes early! I ran into the bathroom at the Foyer and touched up a little, giving myself another little pat on the back for arriving first. I really need to stop doing that. It was 9h45 and I was still the first one there, at which point I realized-- I was wrong.

After some quick texts, I learned that I was supposed to be meeting at the next metro stop. I could walk (in the rain, mind you) but it would probably take me 15-20 minutes. So I opted to hop back on the metro. Only one stop away, I figured it would take no more than 5 minutes. In reality, it took double.

At 10h05, I was finally reunited with the group, a little sweaty and a little frustrated. Luckily, I had a two hour tour to look forward to.

With nothing but optimism on the most beautiful day of the year, this tour would have still been the most boring two hours of my life. It was that bad.

At 12h00, we were finally done-- and couldn't have been more excited for lunch. We picked a great boulangerie that we knew had phenomenal bread. One step inside and we could SMELL how great it was going to be. We were greeted with smiles, and it seemed like things were looking up. The food was inexpensive and everything on the menu looked so delicious, we had a hard time deciding. (I opted for a smoked salmon sandwich and coffee, something I find myself getting at least five times per week).

As we made our way to the table outside, I scooted in behind a woman eating lunch by herself. I turned around and said a very polite, "Oh, pardon!"

Now... whether it was the minor encounter that set her off or if she was tripping on some meds she found at the loony bin-- I couldn't tell you. But here's the dialogue that ensued:

Crazy lady: "Did you drop your bag of shit?" Creepy laugh. No, I'm not even kidding.

Me: "Did I... did I wha--? Drop something? I don't think so...." We all looked around, not sure if we heard her right.

Crazy lady: "You dropped your bag of shit! You smell like shit!" Laughs.
Me: (Still not sure if I heard her right.) We looked around our chairs. Did we step in poop or something?
Crazy lady: "I think you're sitting on it! She's sitting on her bag of shit!"

Me: "Ok, I get it now. She's mocking me."

We tried to ignore her. It didn't work. Crazy lady continued her comments for the next 5 or 10 minutes. "You smell disgusting! You are shit! You're sitting on your shit!" Finally, I'd had enough. I went inside to tell our waiter that the weirdo next door needs a muzzle. He promptly came out and told her to leave us alone, to which she responded, "They are speaking in English! It is disgusting!" He waved her off and went back inside.

Our food couldn't have come fast enough. My sandwich was perfect and coffee was just what I needed. With just a litttttle more sugar (might sweeten up the day).

I took a sip. God damnit. Did I really just add salt?! WHY MEEEE?!!

Aside from having to literally sprint to class, and sit through an additional 3 hours of torture (aka class), I had finally made it to Happy Hour. Shout out to America for inventing such a beautiful thing.

One Mojito, one Mexicana, and one Bloody Mary later-- I honestly didn't even notice the rain. After an amazing Mexican feast and some margaritas at one of the best Mexican restaurants in Paris, it was time to turn in for the night. Needless to say, I passed out real quick. 

So, what do we learn from yesterday's grief?

When life hands you a bag of shit-- head to the closest bar.

Amen.