Before you were sleeping...

It was Thursday night, and a sliver of a moon had risen; the stars were out, and the air held just a twinge of frost as a subtle reminder that the sunny days of summer were drawing rapidly to a close.

Classes had gone well, and physical therapy had been rewarding—but it had been a long day, and I was sleepy as I crawled into bed that night. My two youngest brothers were standing in the bedroom doorway, chattering lightheartedly about the things that had made their day special as they supervised to make sure I got safely aboard the bunk without seriously damaging either the bed or myself.

I was listening to them, nodding, and smiling absent-mindedly as my hands smoothed the top of the quilt, winding down for the night. Suddenly my fingers encountered something foreign. Something soft, but firm. Something flesh-like—and dead. A corpse.

I freaked.

The boys looked on with wide eyes and incredulous little grins as I snatched up the small intruder and flung him onto the floor, spluttering and squeaking and generally going ballistic as I did so. They looked at him...and then at me...and then at him again...and then they both gave me one of those you’ve-certainly-got-to-be-kidding-this-time looks. Yes, I am embarrassed to admit this, but my unwelcome guest was a fly.

Normally, I simply find flies annoying, but when they crawl onto my covers and die, I despise them...utterly and completely. And they become objects of a repulsion I cannot even begin to describe—something bordering on phobic.

After informing me that it was indeed just a fly, Seth and Josiah decided that I needed some time alone to face the formidable dead insect by myself and conduct some self-help therapy sessions, so they retired to bed, snickering softly and casting a few amused backwards glances over their shoulders as they ambled off.

Which left me to wonder...why is it that I find flies so completely repugnant when I have no problem handling toads, who are every bit as ugly and germy, most likely? Why do I hate snakes, and yet find lizards intriguing, despite the similarities?

The philosophical side kicked in right about then: why do I tolerate so many types of fickleness and varieties of phobias in myself when I chalk them up to immaturity in other people?

As I gazed at the small black body lying motionless on my carpet and thought of all the unlucky fellow’s insect children who are buzzing around over the face of WI and who will probably never miss him, I was reminded that a) life is too short to waste on sweating the small stuff, and b) people are too valuable to alienate over that which is forgivable, redeemable, and changeable.

And then it was several minutes past bedtime, and Old Man Slumber came knocking gently at my door to take me away to a warm sunny place filled with happy flies who sat on flowers all day long and debated whether or not their ancestors had turned into ghosts, and whether the ghosts of flies who had died violent deaths (such as by swatting or frog-slurping) were rather misshapen...although no conclusion was ever reached on that score, as far as I can remember.