On Preparation For Dying
I've recently - as in, say, ten minutes ago - come to the following conclusion:
There are people with whom it is not safe to make use of public restrooms.
Not for any reasons personal, mineral or bacterial: just for the sake of my sanity.
A____ has just become the first member of that list.
So we walked into the restroom at the same time, and, as is my ritual, I washed my hands before leaving. Normally it's a pretty simple process: make use of the restroom, wash hands, dry hands, leave. But today was not a normal day, and A____ is not a normal restroom user.
"You know what I hate?" It's a rhetorical question, of course, because 1) he knows I haven't coughed up $29.95 to download The Complete List of Things I Hate, and 2) (I would come to realize) the question is merely a bridge to what can only be categorized as the neurotic rantings of a paranoid freak.
"I hate when people use the restroom, and then use their hands to turn on the faucet, and then wash their hands, and then turn off the faucet and walk away, without thinking about what they just left on the faucet handle."
Suddenly, images of favorite moments from my nearly thirty years of life begin flashing before my eyes. There's my mom and dad, the cowboy boots I got for my sixth birthday, the basketball sneakers I got for my seventh birthday, Brian Birdsell, Doug Cassel, camp, Kristy, more camp, Trey, Gracie, camp, Derek... why am I seeing this?
And then it hits me:
Untold hundreds of thousands of people have used the faucet and walked away, leaving entire ecosystems of bacteria, and I have used the faucet after them, and I am going to die. And not in the Bible-refrenced three score and ten years, either.
How have I made it this long? My body is nothing more than a holding cell, a transport for zillions of mutant marauding microscopic mitochondriae. I'm fortunate that I lived to see my first zit.
All this was weighing pretty heavily on my mind, as you can well imagine, although you don't really have to imagine, because I've pretty much just laid it out for you. I solemnly dried my hands and turned to head back to my desk, my job, my life - what's left of it.
As I walked out, the Grim Reaper held the door open for me. Whew: one less disease-riddled surface to deal with.
There are people with whom it is not safe to make use of public restrooms.
Not for any reasons personal, mineral or bacterial: just for the sake of my sanity.
A____ has just become the first member of that list.
So we walked into the restroom at the same time, and, as is my ritual, I washed my hands before leaving. Normally it's a pretty simple process: make use of the restroom, wash hands, dry hands, leave. But today was not a normal day, and A____ is not a normal restroom user.
"You know what I hate?" It's a rhetorical question, of course, because 1) he knows I haven't coughed up $29.95 to download The Complete List of Things I Hate, and 2) (I would come to realize) the question is merely a bridge to what can only be categorized as the neurotic rantings of a paranoid freak.
"I hate when people use the restroom, and then use their hands to turn on the faucet, and then wash their hands, and then turn off the faucet and walk away, without thinking about what they just left on the faucet handle."
Suddenly, images of favorite moments from my nearly thirty years of life begin flashing before my eyes. There's my mom and dad, the cowboy boots I got for my sixth birthday, the basketball sneakers I got for my seventh birthday, Brian Birdsell, Doug Cassel, camp, Kristy, more camp, Trey, Gracie, camp, Derek... why am I seeing this?
And then it hits me:
Untold hundreds of thousands of people have used the faucet and walked away, leaving entire ecosystems of bacteria, and I have used the faucet after them, and I am going to die. And not in the Bible-refrenced three score and ten years, either.
How have I made it this long? My body is nothing more than a holding cell, a transport for zillions of mutant marauding microscopic mitochondriae. I'm fortunate that I lived to see my first zit.
All this was weighing pretty heavily on my mind, as you can well imagine, although you don't really have to imagine, because I've pretty much just laid it out for you. I solemnly dried my hands and turned to head back to my desk, my job, my life - what's left of it.
As I walked out, the Grim Reaper held the door open for me. Whew: one less disease-riddled surface to deal with.
posted by pastor mike at 1:30 PM
1 Comments:
You are a funny, funny guy
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