The Worm That Ruined My Reputation

Now, I don’t want to say I have bad breath, but Saturday morning, while I was out in the front yard turning over soil for the fall bulbs, I managed to flip a live worm right into my mouth. That’s right, a whole, wriggling, protein-packed earthworm.

And before you ask, no, I wasn’t trying to start a new diet trend or relive my childhood dares. It just happened.

I was crouched, working that small hand spade like I knew what I was doing, loosening the dirt around the marigolds. The sun was barely up, the air was crisp, and I was in that peaceful half-awake state where you think nature’s your friend. I gave the spade a good flick to shake loose a clump of dirt, and the next thing I knew, something soft, cold, and distinctly alive hit me right in the mouth.

Reflexes are a funny thing. I didn’t stop to think, “Oh, that’s a worm.” My brain just yelled, “Yuck!”

I spat with enough force to set Olympic records. That poor worm sailed across the yard like a slimy little javelin and landed a few inches from a robin that had been minding its own business nearby.

The bird looks at me, then at the worm, then back at me again. You could see it thinking, “Nah, whatever just came out of that guy’s mouth can’t be safe.”

It fluffed its feathers, gave me a look I can only describe as “deeply judgmental,” and flew off. And that’s how I found myself, spade in hand, worm on the ground, feeling like I’d just got shunned by one of nature’s cleanup crews.

I picked the worm up and set it back in the dirt, mumbling an apology like I’d just violated some sacred gardener’s code. The whole thing left me wondering if maybe the robin had the right idea.

After all, if I saw someone spit out what I usually considered breakfast, I’d probably take off too. Then I went inside to rinse out my mouth,

My wife looked at me and asked, “You okay out there?”

“Oh, fine,” I said, trying to sound casual. “Just had a bit of a run-in with the local wildlife.”

She gave me that look, the one that says she’s trying to decide if she really wants to know more. After a pause, she just nodded and went back to what she was doing.

For the rest of the day, though, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d been publicly embarrassed by a bird. Every time I looked out the window, I half-expected to see that robin sitting on the fence, telling the other birds about the weird human who eats worms and then spits them out like a snob sending back soup at a fancy restaurant.

By evening, I decided maybe I’d done enough gardening for one day. I cleaned off the spade, put it in the shed, and gave the yard one final look. The worm was gone — either forgiven and returned to duty or carried off by some less picky robin.

I figure there’s a moral in there somewhere. Maybe it’s about humility, or it could be about being more careful where you point your spade.

Either way, if you ever want to know how bad your breath is, ask a robin. If it flies away, it’s time for a mint.