Test of patience

I find writing and cooking are great ways to escape from reality and prevent myself from going completely insane. A certain level of insanity is a good thing, but when I am ready to put on my high school band uniform and run through the streets of Gettysburg pathetically attempting to play the trumpet sitting in my closet that I have not touched since Memorial Day 2001, I grab my laptop or a mixing bowl.
I write more than I cook; not only because my profession demands it, but also because it is cheaper and could never cause me to be a certified lard ass.
Today’s keystrokes are attributed to those tiny, annoying flies that torment our lives throughout the summer and fall.
Once or twice a month, I spend my weekends at the YWCA Service Desk. It is an easy job that puts a little extra money in our bank account. I watch the gate and make sure no one is sneaking in, take customers' money and answer questions. Those tasks take up about an hour, maybe two, of a five to seven hour shift. The rest of the time I read, balance my checkbook and waste time on the Internet.
It is very peaceful and very low key.
That is, until a few weeks ago when the outside temperatures began to rise and flies started retreating inside.
The YW is a very large place. There are plenty of spots for the flies to go without having to land on my head, nose and hands every thirty seconds. Instead, they insist on annoying the hell out of me.
They are God’s true test of patience. Traffic, lazy people and crying babies do not hold a candle to flies. It does not matter what the rest of your life is like, St. Peter will grant you instant access to the party house in the sky if you die without having ever killed a fly.
When I am talking to a member and one of those tiny creature’s little legs starts to tickle my skin, it takes every fiber of my being not to scream. I grab my swatter, but he is smart and much faster than I am. The rare occasion that I successfully turn one into desk kill, about a dozen of his family members appear and continue the job that their loved one died doing – trying to make me snap.
There are 29 minutes left in my shift. I may survive this one, but I also work seven hours tomorrow.