Blogosphere, I have a serious confession to make: I done messed up.
On the Thursday evening of finals week—stressed from studying and preparing for our exams—Kate and I made the trip down to our local Five Guys Burgers to indulge in a greasy treat that we didn’t have to spend time cooking. It seemed like a harmless dinner out at first, but what transpired in a moment of frustration and anger that evening continues to wrack my soul with guilt and grief. I am afraid the only way to rid myself of this burden is to allow my friends and family to take a small portion of this yoke upon themselves and share in it with me.
I trimmed my mustache—almost imperceptibly, yet trimmed nonetheless.
Now before you hastily cast your judgement and scorn, I beg that you consider for a moment how I am already feeling about this. Without being hyperbolic, it is safe to say that the last few weeks of this duplicitous living have been nothing short of eternal, fiery torture. What’s more, the pleasure of finally eating food like hamburgers, sandwiches, and pizza, NOT laden with large swathes of my own facial hair is disgustingly delightful. I was slowly transforming into Dr. Zoidberg from Futurama, and this metamorphosis had taken me to a dark and desperate place.
By far, the most abominable aspect of the whole mess is the great length I went through to cover up and lie about my actions. Kate had no problem keeping my sin a secret. In fact, she was quite happy with the change. Like a modern Delilah, she looked on indifferently as I broke my oath.
Later, at work, I was questioned by a co-worker about the rules of the Samson Project:
“You can’t even trim it?” he asked.
“Not even a trim,” I replied, carefully trying to surf the waves of shame crashing around me.
For the sake of brevity, I will spare you all the details of my penance. Suffice it to say this treachery will never happen again…. probably.