Wednesday, November 21, 2007

"Oh, the wormanity!"

One place I used to work had a walkway leading into the building, lined on both sides with grass.

On mornings when it had just rained the night before, the walkway was usually covered in earthworms who had emerged from the bordering lawns. Though I naturally wore shoes, I was still grossed out a bit by the idea of squishing all those little wormies. I therefore walked the long paved route to the front doors carefully, trying not to prematurely end the life of a lowly worm.

It was very evident, however, that I was not the first person to take this path: what I spent most of my time avoiding were in fact mass worm casualties, strewn across the pavement like mangled spaghetti. This scene disturbed me, but more for the implications than the actual sight of it.

Were all my coworkers heartless bastards who thought nothing of trodding on the small and helpless? Was I the only one who cared about making the effort to not step on hapless earthworm commuters? Did they have any idea why I was walking so weirdly, as if trying avoid broken glass or big puddles? (Can someone really be so concerned as to try avoiding hurting every worm and still live an even vaguely well-adjusted life?)

By the time I reached the front door, the death toll was overwhelming. “Oh, the wormanity!” my little soul cried out.


















(image from DK images)