Divine Wrath

As I stared into the bathroom mirror this morning to begin my daily assessment of the ravages of time, I stopped short. There it was. A zit on my upper lip. I leaned forward to steady myself on the sink as the enormity of the situation rolled over me. God had judged me and decided to smote me with a zit. A facial zit. An upper lip facial zit. But why? I could not remember machine gunning any orphanage. Though we played together as children, Satan and I were not BFFs and I had nothing to do with the current hair "style" of teenage boys. To sentence one to an upper lip zit was severe punishment. My personal Mount Vesuvius looked angry and I was sure that its roots entangled my vital organs, brain and soul.

"I should call in to work" I thought. Dealing with this Divine retribution must trump the tedium of the modern work day. There were priorities here that should not be ignored, but I knew with nauseous certainty that I was lashed to the wheels of oppression and would trudge off to the salt mines as usual. God and I had already come to an uneasy truce about his previous Chinese-water-torture-like sentence of the 40 hour work week.

To underscore His displeasure, my handsome boyfriend entered the bathroom and asked me to look at his skin, something that he has asked me to do maybe 1 time in 5 years. I had forgotten that he had a dermatologist appointment today. Though ostensibly concerned about cancerous growths, he presented me with a smooth, blemish free surface who's only purpose was to mock my condition. "Oh, this God is clever" I thought, to rub my zitty face in the perfect skin of those in His pleasure.

My boyfriend took his spotless skin and soul and headed off to his appointment. I donned my version of sack cloth and ashes and headed to the Metro. As it is August in DC, I sometimes think of visiting my old playmate Satan if only for a cooler diversion. The platform was crowded with sweaty people waiting for the train to arrive or for the rupture of some local dam that would send thousands of gallons of deadly but cool water flooding through the tunnels. After the train arrived, we piled into the car where we enjoyed the same tropical conditions found on the platform, now thoughtfully compressed by Metro with body odor and a lack of seating.

Forced to stand, my skin affliction was visible to most of the people in the train car and several satellites in low earth orbit. I tried to bury myself in reading the newspaper, but having to hold on to one of the pre-greased poles does not facilitate the turning of pages. I only succeeded in drawing more unwanted attention to myself with quick, noisy snatches at my paper, as if we were quarreling. At the next stop, a small portion of the 36,000 people in the car got off, and one seat opened up beside me. I quickly took possession, feeling elated at out maneuvering the rest of the dehydrated horde and from the removal of my pimple punishment from public display. I settled in and happily turned the page with my greasy hand.

It was then that I noticed the new passengers forcing their way into our movable Hades. The horizon above my newspaper suddenly filled with stretched green fabric. I looked up to see a tired, sweaty expectant mother directly in front of me. "Very clever indeed" I think about this zit wielding God. I got her attention and gave her my seat.

I'm pretty sure the zit made me do it.