I can't comprehend how King of the Swing Wedgie wriggled his way into my adult life. I don't understand how these people (swing wedgie people of the world) manage to make it past the bacteria infected scabs, through the acne breakouts and out of some character flawed university with a diploma, holding no karmic refute to speak of.
Now, I could stay wallowing in my bath of bitter and angry and grumpy-pants, wondering how life can be this cruel but that lump three feet above my ass occasionally decides to do it's job. It starts as a vague memory of Wedgie Man alone during snack time, meanders into high school fist fights and ends with the email address that gets left off the cocktail hour invite, because answering the question "Who brought that guy?" is infinitely more painful than "Hey, why didn't anyone invite me?". That rare gift Perspective drops some much needed insight into my lap. It's much better to deal with Wedgie Man than to actually be him. That's not to say I don't have a the occasional urge to staple his eyelids to the wall. I may have to put up with his ugly personality, but I don't have to look at it in the mirror every morning. And that makes it a hell of a lot easier to get up and go to work every day.