It had to be too good to last. After a blissful couple of months with an empty apartment above me, I once again have upstairs neighbors. And once again, they seem catastrophically unaware of the fact that they have a downstairs neighbor.
Living in apartments for as long as I have, you develop a certain kind of walk where you don’t really put your full weight on the floor. Not exactly tip-toeing, but not stamping around like you’re on parade either. You just evolve it out of courtesy for whoever might be living underneath you. Because nobody wants to live inside the finale of the 1812 Overture, and the last thing you want to do is put someone else through that.
Except my string of upstairs neighbors haven’t learned that lesson. The last batch had some kind of large dog that they would presumably chase around the place. Whether to keep it from eating small children or escaping I’m not sure, but it put up some impressive resistance. This new group has only just started in this evening, but I’m fairly positive it’s a troupe of overweight Cirque du Soleil acrobats with inner ear problems. There doesn’t seem to be any sense or pattern to the thumping going on up there, just random sprees of pounding followed by moments of silence. Maybe they’re catching their breath in between clumsy pirouettes.
Or perhaps they’re just breaking in the carpet. In any case, it’s not 2:00 AM or the crack of dawn, so I’m willing to cut some slack. But if I get woken up by this ruckus tomorrow, I’ll … well, I’ll glare menacingly at the ceiling, I can tell you.