Circle of life

There are these wet wipes, see, that you use to clean your cute little production whenever it does something not so, well, cute. Yeah, bum wipes. I bought them for the express purpose of  wiping my brow at the end of weekly odysseys through the heart of the India's most polluted crossing to the nearest self-respecting coffee shop. Wiping a gaunt facial cheek with something designed for, let's say "chubbier" ones, may gross people out, but it makes me look eccentric. This, as every self-respecting academic knows, is one step removed from greatness.

Time and heat has lessened my enthusiasm for these adventurous forays, and these wipes lie forgotten. At the bottom of my rucksack. And a wipe unused is like a new commode. Clean. But, they have been a knight in shining, though slightly damp, armor for me these past few early mornings. I use them to clean up after broken eggs. It is a brand new talent I have discovered. I tend to drop eggs on hard surfaces. Maybe I expect them to bounce. I mean we must be wary of cheap Chinese duplicates, and this seems an easy way to check. Unfortunately, the egg appears unusable afterwards. But for the wipes, life's come a full circle. They were created to clean what comes out of a rear end. And they achieved that purpose. Nirvana beckons.