I hate when it's 80 degrees on April 2 and you're wearing a dress and some fancy under-dress underwear combination that's only got a precarious hold on your body and really uncomfortable shoes, and your heels are bleeding, and you're trying to read a book while standing on the Metro and clutching an enormous bag full of dirty Tupperware that's been piling up in your office drawer for two weeks, and you notice a family of tourists staring at you.
And when you slowly look up from your book, the mom pipes up, "So what's it like to live in the nation's capital?"
And all you really want to do is ask one of her kids if she'd be so kind as to crouch down and reattach the band-aid on your heel that is flapping in the humid subway breeze, but instead you say, "It's expensive."
Seriously, what did they want me to say? "Every day I wake up thinking about President Lincoln, and then I thank God that I live in a city where I can buy a quarter-pound of grapes for $12."