Flaking and Cursing
Thanks to Jesus and his lot–and Lot’s Wife–I need some new swears.
If it weren’t for them and all their high-fallutin’ “Biblical history,” I probably would never have heard of the Dead Sea and its abrasive salts.
Which means I wouldn’t use sea salt in my homemade olive oil/cedar essence/sea salt body scrub that I daub on during Almighty Showertime Exfoliation. Instead, I would use pine needles and lentils softened with sap.
And if I’d never heard of Dead Sea salt and therefore didn’t use it in my sacred exfoliation process, then I would be a nicer person with a cleaner vocabulary.
You see, I have a little trouble with the order of my shower agenda; I get wet, add shampoo, slather on the soap, shave, rinse, add conditioner, and then scrub up with saltishness. But Sweet Maria von Trapp, if there’s one thing on the planet that scourges the body with an evil necromancy, it’s salt applied with great vigor to freshly-shaved legs.
To make things worse, this morning I managed to nick one my legs as I shaved. Then, a mere 74 seconds later, having forgotten all about the recently-inflicted Nick (I did that one hungover morning in college, too! But that Nick had blue eyes, little endurance, and lacked the depth of the one on my leg today), I massaged on a hefty palmful of my sea salt scrub, making sure to grind and rasp it into every crevice of my newly-minted nick.
As it turns out, the sins of the razor do not wash away. Instead, they fester and protest, as did my mouth at that moment.
Easily, I came up with a “Frick!”
Thoughtlessly, I shouted out a “Tarnation, you wascally wabbit!”
Off the tip of my tongue tripped a “SHEEE-IT” and a quick “Hell would be a mercy right now!”
But, frankly, all my efforts at verbal expressiveness fell flat compared to the stinging, briery pain that shot through my stubble-free gam as salt met blood.
Thus, I curse–ineffectively–the salt that buoyed the Lamb of God.
Damn it, Jesus. Just damn it.