It's my guilty pleasure and it's one of my fatal flaws. In fact, I should probably be in a confessional right now instead of bull-horning my opinions on the matter here. For better or worse, maybe because my pregnancy hormones are bouncing around like a drunken sorority sister and heightening several of my various neuroses, or maybe because it'll be a full moon soon, for whatever reason, I have to get something off of my chest.

I really, wholeheartedly revel in karma. To be more specific, I get a giddy, slightly deranged excitement from karma paying a visit to other people, especially those who deserve its biting, stinging pangs. (And, yes, I'm aware that as I write this, there's probably some karma brewing for me as a direct result of this entry). So, for example, when the Dallas Mavericks served Lebron James a big piece of "taste of your own medicine" pie on Sunday night, I was literally jumping up and down on my couch. To see that snide, arrogant, narcissistic bastard get his rear end handed to him on a platter was so very pleasing and sheepishly stimulating.  

In my own life, karma's been quite a faithful friend. Though my better half would have me forget many of the immeasurably inane things he's ever said to me, one has stuck out to me like a woman walking down Michigan Avenue in the middle of July wearing a full-length fur coat and thigh high leather boots. He, in his infinite wisdom, once proclaimed that I ought not to be concerned with questioning him or getting him to tell me that I was pretty or looked nice or that he found me attractive, because "if I'd ever seen his ex-girlfriends, I'd know that he only dated beautiful women." That sentiment and sentence has scared me for the last six and a half years of my life--that was, until, last Saturday when finally, like a scab falling off a once-festering wound, I was healed. Of course, this healing process could not have happened without the help of karma. And this karma came in the form of presenting the chosen one with evidence that actually, all his "ex-girlfriends" were nothing more than make-up averse, granola loving, anti-shaving, conditioner hating and let's entirely forget the notions of a hair dryer or straightener, tree huggers. 

Every single one of his ex-lady loves, through the wonders of a mere Google search, turned out to be quite unattractive, to say the least. One in particular, one that it was rumored not only to have broken his heart but to have trampled upon it, stood there in her Google search results in a most matronly short red jersey knit frock and white (Shock!) flat sandals, with her hair pulled back in a down-on-the-farm style pony tail, without a lick of makeup and her face and body frame channeling her inner skeletor, all at her sister's po-dunk wedding in the middle of a field. Yes, indeed, there she stood, this woman from the past that was oft mentioned and was, again, the bane of my existence, in all her grotesque ordinariness and with the marks of age indelibly chiseled into her pale frame. Of course, I absolutely had to rub this one in my better half's face. In fact, I rubbed it in so hard that I actually had the audacity to put up my photo, side by side with the decrepit skeletor, to demonstrate to him that not only was his proclamation of his ex-girlfriends' "beauty" full of malarkey, but that he did quite well with me, if I do say so myself. Karma, in that instance, came in the form of a mere photo, and yet served up a really good taste in my other half's mouth that perhaps he at least ought to think before he posits such lunacy. 

I’m sure you remember the end of the world, Rapture, nonsense that was running rampant in May. Notwithstanding the sheer lunacy of the entire notion, there were, nonetheless, a good number of people who believed the drivel being spewed by the illustrative, possibly mentally unstable preacher, Harold Camping. It was these same people who, in reliance on this mental ward candidate, sold off all of their possessions, gave away all their money and just waited to be taken up to the heavens. Again, though I’m probably wrong in reveling in the failure of the Rapture, I really couldn’t help but feel a sick happiness over the feelings that these clowns must have felt on the day after the world failed to end. Karma, in this instance, came in the form of a cold, hard slap in the face, dished out in tandem by reality and common sense.

Undoubtedly, I'm going to get served my own piece of karma pie, if only by virtue of one of my many flaws. In the interim, however, I'll revel in its operation in other people's lives--as wrong as that might sound.