I've used this phrase many times to calm myself down in irritating first world situations, for example when I check into a posh hotel and I'm forced to wear giant slippers. Why can't they put smaller sized slippers in the room? Why do hotels assume that everyone is a size 42? Particularly when you are checking in as Mr and Mrs Fritz? Can't they just ask, "What is your shoe size madam?" Is it really that difficult? Could they not have a box to tick, to at least have a choice between S, M, L or Hobbit foot? When you're paying a small fortune to stay in a hotel it would be nice to walk around in slippers without constantly tripping up.
Now, I realise I sound like an absolute wanker, but this is a real life issue I've experienced several times. And while I'm acutely aware that this is a 'first world problem,' it's completely relevant, because after all I live in the first world. It's also a hotel glitch that could easily be fixed.
Another first world irritation I have with hotels and all accomodation types in fact, is that rarely do they provide two luggage racks when two people are checking in. Again, this is not rocket science. Two people usually means two suitcases, particularly when it's a longer stay. We all know, well at least we should all know that putting suitcases onto the bed is a big no-no, transferring filth and potentially bed bugs, or God knows what else on the bed is just gross. So racks are not only essential to eliminate this disastrous outcome but it also makes for a more comfortable way to access our stuff. In our situation, Mr Fritz always kindly offers me the rack and he takes the floor - but really there should be two racks.
Leaving your suitcase on the floor comes with added risks because things can crawl into them at night and before you know it you're carrying some freaky insect in your suitcase all the way home. We once had the misfortune to stay in a pretty vile hotel in New Zealand. In our room I saw large beetles clumsily trying to make their way across the mottled beige and brown shag-pile carpet. Luckily there were two vinyl covered chairs in our room that we managed to balanced our suitcases on.
Needless to say, this was a no-slippers-kinda place. But there were other unique features such as the cracked bathroom tiles, ceiling paint pealing off and a extra soft spongy bed which forced us to split up for the night. After Mr Fritz engaged his core muscles for a solid 45 minutes to keep himself from rolling right on top of me, he moved to the single bed for the night.
On another occasion, in a fairly exclusive resort in Broome, Western Australia, I spotted giant cockroaches roaming around after lights out. These could easily have made their way into our suitcases! While in a quaint seaside cottage in Tasmania centipedes were crawling on the floors, walls and dropping from the ceiling onto the bed! I don't have the words to describe the terror I went through that night.
In Crete, we had several ghekos on the walls and ceiling that kept me on high alert and in India, we had a classic chunky-tailed rat scurrying along a ledge inside our room. Now, while some of these creatures are commonplace in many parts of the world, even in Melbourne, I don't want them in my hotel room or in my suitcase.
But what about public toilets? I know, I know, at least we have toilets - and we don't have to squat in the streets or back alleys to take a dump. But this is about first world problems, so I have to mention public toilets. Why are the doors so damn close to the toilets? It's bad enough that sometimes you need a pee when you're out, but this badness escalates, when your legs have to brush the rim of the toilet seat and your back touches the side wall as you make your way in.
Then you notice there isn't a hook for your bag. So you hang it around your neck. You can't sit down because some filthy bitch before you has pissed all over the seat, so you brace and you squat. You then notice you're actually standing in a little puddle of piss too and all you want to do is get the hell out. So you reach for the toilet paper at which point your thighs are already quivering from exhaustion - but there's no toilet paper. Fuck! This is not good. But it's nothing unusual, I'm prepared. I access the tissues from the bag hanging around my neck with the speed and skill of a striking cobra, I squeeze back through the narrow opening and get the hell out.