When I got home from work this evening, I felt a pretty heavy five o'clock shadow forming. Actually, it was more of a seven-thirty shadow. That sort of thing bothers me when I sit down in my fat, stuffed leather chair and let my chin scrape across my throat as I reach for the TV remote.
Ugh. Did I say that was a beard? It felt more like thirty-six grit sandpaper as I began to wonder how much skin grafts cost. Deciding that it was best to ameliorate the situation, I trudged over to the bathroom, grabbed my Gillette, cranked the water up to "melt aircraft carriers", lathered up, and had at it.
Then it happened.
Anyone who knows me or reads anything I recount knows that "then it happened" defines my life.
A fly had gotten into the apartment, undoubtedly sneaking in as I dragged a few bags of groceries into my apartment.
Big deal, right? I'm not a squeamish kind of guy, as attested to while watching knee replacement surgery performed on some science channel years ago. Flies are a different matter. To me, they represent All Things Filth, even down to how they rub their hands together in that irritating way as they prepare to land on your toothbrush.
That's what set the whole thing off. Flies are incredibly quick, as everyone knows. My response to that was to grab an old newspaper and return to the bathroom for a quick swat and victory.
Didn't happen; my best imitation of the 2007 Pittsburgh Pirates came with a heaving swing-and-a-miss as the paper elicited a loud pop and the fly found refuge on the shower curtain. Great, I thought. I'll turn off the vanity light so that only the night light is on -just enough light for me to be able to see what I'm doing. It turned out that the night light provided just enough illumination for the fly, too, as he migrated over to the faucet. This time, I approached slowly and, covering the night light with my body as well as I could, took another shot.
Strike two as I inadvertently knocked the can of Edge Pro Gel into the bathtub and the proud representative of the Diptera order descended upon a bar of Dial soap. Yeah, good luck there, pal. I know where you've been. By now I was yelling out of frustration at the little... While I retrieved shaving cream, the fly found sanctuary on my left shoulder. I could feel those little feet of his, leaving sticky chemical footprints on me that only 3M could love. Feeling the wrath that only someone who has a Bipolar disorder has (like me, for instance) or a Viking Berserker, I went Daffy Duck on the little winged creep. It doesn't matter one whit to me that I swung that newspaper enough times to strike out the entire National League East. I was in the moment, focusing so hard that I developed tunnel vision and all sense of time stopped.
Speaking of stopping, I suddenly became aware of the missing buzzing sound elicited by Neville Nuisance. I did hear a fortuitous, watery "plop" sound, however.
Victory was mine! Struggling to either free himself or perform an excellent imitation of Vegas-style water ballet, was my nemesis in the porcelain bowl of American Standard's finest. I cannot describe, in mere words, the utter relief I felt at that moment. The sudden absence of something crawling on you, buzzing around your head, and taunting you by crawling on your personal effects while you wonder whether or not you've become a candidate for a mental status exam is a wonderful shock back to reality.
I pressed the lever on the front of the toilet, feeling "flushed" with victory. I think it was with somewhat of a sadistic streak that I bid my micro-enemy a bon voyage; watching him swirling in laps seemed a fitting revenge for an insect intent upon making my night miserable.
I took in one final sound.
He buzzed off.
Ugh. Did I say that was a beard? It felt more like thirty-six grit sandpaper as I began to wonder how much skin grafts cost. Deciding that it was best to ameliorate the situation, I trudged over to the bathroom, grabbed my Gillette, cranked the water up to "melt aircraft carriers", lathered up, and had at it.
Then it happened.
Anyone who knows me or reads anything I recount knows that "then it happened" defines my life.
A fly had gotten into the apartment, undoubtedly sneaking in as I dragged a few bags of groceries into my apartment.
Big deal, right? I'm not a squeamish kind of guy, as attested to while watching knee replacement surgery performed on some science channel years ago. Flies are a different matter. To me, they represent All Things Filth, even down to how they rub their hands together in that irritating way as they prepare to land on your toothbrush.
That's what set the whole thing off. Flies are incredibly quick, as everyone knows. My response to that was to grab an old newspaper and return to the bathroom for a quick swat and victory.
Didn't happen; my best imitation of the 2007 Pittsburgh Pirates came with a heaving swing-and-a-miss as the paper elicited a loud pop and the fly found refuge on the shower curtain. Great, I thought. I'll turn off the vanity light so that only the night light is on -just enough light for me to be able to see what I'm doing. It turned out that the night light provided just enough illumination for the fly, too, as he migrated over to the faucet. This time, I approached slowly and, covering the night light with my body as well as I could, took another shot.
Strike two as I inadvertently knocked the can of Edge Pro Gel into the bathtub and the proud representative of the Diptera order descended upon a bar of Dial soap. Yeah, good luck there, pal. I know where you've been. By now I was yelling out of frustration at the little... While I retrieved shaving cream, the fly found sanctuary on my left shoulder. I could feel those little feet of his, leaving sticky chemical footprints on me that only 3M could love. Feeling the wrath that only someone who has a Bipolar disorder has (like me, for instance) or a Viking Berserker, I went Daffy Duck on the little winged creep. It doesn't matter one whit to me that I swung that newspaper enough times to strike out the entire National League East. I was in the moment, focusing so hard that I developed tunnel vision and all sense of time stopped.
Speaking of stopping, I suddenly became aware of the missing buzzing sound elicited by Neville Nuisance. I did hear a fortuitous, watery "plop" sound, however.
Victory was mine! Struggling to either free himself or perform an excellent imitation of Vegas-style water ballet, was my nemesis in the porcelain bowl of American Standard's finest. I cannot describe, in mere words, the utter relief I felt at that moment. The sudden absence of something crawling on you, buzzing around your head, and taunting you by crawling on your personal effects while you wonder whether or not you've become a candidate for a mental status exam is a wonderful shock back to reality.
I pressed the lever on the front of the toilet, feeling "flushed" with victory. I think it was with somewhat of a sadistic streak that I bid my micro-enemy a bon voyage; watching him swirling in laps seemed a fitting revenge for an insect intent upon making my night miserable.
I took in one final sound.
He buzzed off.
Once again you have succeeded in plucking me from my normal rut and dropping me into an intense and mind spinning tale--only to leave me feeling so much freer and blessed than before I saw your post. Thank you!
ReplyDeletelol Thank you for your comment. It's funny how the smallest things can control us. Like flies, for instance.
ReplyDeleteToo funny! You know I gotta' post this!
ReplyDeletePoor little house fly buzzin' round my head,
I wish they'd named you out door fly instead,
It's a shame you don't know your fate,
By the time you learn, it's too late.
Or, in Rob's case....
At least it wasn't a horse fly!