How all my days of slacking have come back to bite me
The concept of karma has always interested me, but I’ve never actually thought it existed. Sure, bad things are bound to happen sooner or later if you are a terrible person or constantly in a bad mood, but that’s hardly a law of religion — much less a scientific one.
But it’s hard to see my recent misfortunes as anything other than karmic retribution for years of taking advantage of my parents’ benevolence.
First of all, I hadn’t even been at school for a week before I burnt myself with an iron — and not just a normal iron burn on a fingertip, but a full-on line across my stomach. It happened when I decided to show off and juggle some really hot irons, but my friend got so jealous of my skills she grabbed one out of the air and pressed it onto my stomach.
No, that’s not true at all. My shirt was wrinkled so I took it off and ironed it, getting burned in the process. I just really want to come up for a better story behind this curiously straight white line on my stomach.
For all of those times my mom got mad at me for leaving a freshly ironed pair of pants on the floor — well, the iron got revenge for her.
Not long after, my roommates and I received an unwelcome surprise from our garbage disposal. We have two sinks side by side — one that has a disposal and one that does not. We flipped on the switch for the side with the disposal, and it came right back up the other side. That little problem has yet to be fixed.
For all of those days where I “had too much homework” to help with the dishes, well, the disposal has decided to spit in my face. Literally.
But perhaps the most traumatic karmic butt-kicking came in a dressing room. Anyone who follows me on Twitter or was (un)fortunate enough to be on the receiving end of my text messaging rants knows exactly what I am about to say. I was trapped by a dress.
I was walking home one day, and a dress in the window of a shop on the corner caught my eye. I decided to stop in and try it on. That was mistake number one.
Mistake number two was pulling it on even after I saw it was a little tight. I got it on, and within seconds I knew I wasn’t going to buy it. But I couldn’t get it off.
This wasn’t just a struggle with the fabric; I’m talking five minutes of trying to wiggle out of this thing with no avail. This is the part of the story where I panicked and asked everyone I knew what to do. Some people laughed at me, some tweeted suggestions and one friend started to jog over to rescue me.
I conspicuously remained in this dressing room for about 10 minutes, probably concerning the girl who was working there, and attempted to remove the dress without ripping it. Finally, with one large tug, I yanked it off — knocking down a hanger with a loud clatter as I did so.
I could hear the people in the rest of the store asking, “what was that?”
I attempted to walk out of the dressing room as casually as possible, placed the demonic dress back on the rack I got it from, and purchased a different dress just to make it seem as though I had been in there for 20 minutes for a good reason.
I am convinced this experience was karma for all of the times I made my mom wait around while I tried on shirt after shirt, trying to decide which one looks better. Sorry Mom, but props to you for putting up with me. And if my belated thanks aren’t sufficient, know that college-karma has exacted revenge on your behalf. Suffice it to say, next time I go home, I’ll help do the dishes. Maybe it will save me the trouble of having food spurted in my face. Or maybe not.