When I came home from work the other day, our kitchen ceiling was on the kitchen floor, in pieces.
A leaky washer in the upstairs apartment was the apparent culprit. Thankfully, the cleanup process was relatively simple, and the apartment is still in a liveable condition as we wait for ceiling repairs to be made.
Looking up at where it used to be, I realized how much I liked that ceiling and that I should’ve appreciated it while it was there.
Thinking it was a terrible thing to be ceiling-less, I did what most young people do when things go wrong and called my parents. One after the other, they told me, “It’s not that big of a deal. Things like this happen. It happened to us once.”
My mother went on to say that I would laugh about the ceiling some day. It hasn’t happened yet, but hey, you never know. So, I had to stop feeling sorry for myself and get back to living my life.
Thankfully, no one was home when the ceiling crashed down, and nothing else was ruined – other than a couple hours of our night.
We have a good excuse to eat out for a few nights, which doesn’t bother me at all. And once the ceiling is replaced, I’ll happily go back to complaining about other, even less important things – like how my color blindness led me to believe one of my favorite shirts was blue when it’s apparently purple, or how it’s too hot to sleep.
At the end of the day, I try to remember things could always be much, much worse. At least the living room ceiling didn’t crash down. If something happened to the TV or the couch, then we would have real problems.