A secret confession:

So the front door to our building hasn’t ever really shut properly. We’ve lived here for almost four years, and I can’t ever remember feeling the door slam CLOSED in that concrete way that doors are supposed to do. But that was fine, mostly, because I’m not good with locks.

Then, a few weeks ago, some guy got mugged across the street. We heard him screaming for help through our open window – B! called the cops while I flailed about, eventually bursting onto the scene, arms akimbo, yelling. The two dudes who mugged the guy had taken off up the street, and the victim seemed shaken but not really hurt. It was all of 10:30pm.

“We’re moving,” said B!, making a big scene of shutting the door behind him. “And we’re getting this thing fixed!”

I laughed.

Then, my key stopped working in the door that doesn’t close. And one day, inevitably, someone locked it while I was out at work. Luckily, I had arrived home in midafternoon and not after dusk – but that’s all it took to get me on the phone with our landlord making all types of demands.

“What is it that you need?” he asked wearily, finally returning my third voicemail.

I explained the situation, mugging and all, and the next day a locksmith was at the door. I gave him my sweetest smile and thanked him for his help, and my new key – magically! – worked just fine. It was a big relief, finally having a door that shut and a key that worked, because seriously the previous night I’d had to break in through the basement, climbing over the IKEA Wasteland of Broken Dreams that lives underneath our downstairs porch, IN HEELS NO LESS, to get to the rickety back door.

But, guys, here’s the thing.

I just realized.

My key wasn’t broken. I was just using the wrong one. For like, a couple weeks.

Hey, I SAID I wasn’t good with locks.

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