Super

I know that when confronted with the question of, “What super power would you prefer? Time travel or flight?” most people are sleeping on the sheer convenience of time control. I understand wanting to soar, and I get that the optics are much more heroic, and I even understand people’s hesitance to engage with what’s commonly known as the butterfly effect. But come on.

The reality of our existence is that when someone is given the opportunity or resources to perform at a superhuman level, they often are not using their powers for the greatest good. Take for example, super strength. It’s possible to achieve, both naturally and by way of supplementation. However, I have yet to hear a group of people absolutely slaying it by the weight rack talking about how they can’t wait to post up at supermarkets to help the elderly or disabled with cumbersome groceries, or actively pitching disaster relief organizations for sponsored travel to places in which their strength could be used to free innocents trapped in the wreckage brought on by a natural disaster. What I do see them doing is slathering themselves in cooking oil, getting on stage, starting an Instagram with “fitness” somewhere in the handle, and regurgitating content that essentially says “pain is weakness leaving the body” in forty-seven different typesets to motivate their followers.

For the record, I’m not knocking this, because if I were to be given my super power of choice I’m not convinced I would use it exclusively for the public good. In fact, I’m almost sure that I wouldn’t. I know myself well enough to know that I’d love to foil Hitler or Mussolini, but I also know that it would take a LOT of time-pausing to brush up on my German and Italian. Plus, if I went back in time, I’d still be me. Me who has no international espionage training. Me who seriously needs to brush up on her poker face. Me who has a barely tenable grasp on conversational Spanish and French after years of practice. Me who loves few things in this life more than an extra hour in bed on a gray and rainy morning. In my heart of hearts, humanitarian savior-ism just isn’t as realistic a use for my hypothetical time-control prowess as the ability to hit the snooze button multiple times, repercussion-free.

I thought I’d feel pretty low admitting that to myself, but I don’t. And the reason is because the history of human civilization tends to follow certain patterns. We see them come about, are alarmed by them, then post on the internet about how “everything’s cyclical” and how we are wasting our chance to get ahead of the torment that’s befalling the human race on a daily basis. And we are, as a whole. There are brilliant activists who are putting themselves on the front lines, just as there have always been, and our history books will sing their praises because we don’t deserve their ilk. The raw truth is that most are like me. I’m disturbed by injustices, moved to donate to marginalized causes on a recurring monthly basis, but I’m not lying down in front of a tank anytime soon. Maybe if I shot lasers out of my eyes that’d be a different story. Maybe not. I might just Lasik myself and call it a day.

All this to say, we don’t usually get to choose our superpowers, as they often rise out of personal (not humanitarian) necessity. The super strong weight lifters who perhaps most closely emulate our Americanized version of a superhero? I have a hunch that most of them started out at a squat bench because they needed something to believe in and were coming up short for a time, so they turned themselves into the physical manifestation of motivation, strength, and growth. Their social media might serve to inspire, but I’d be willing to bet that’s a byproduct of what began as a self-serving cause. I’d bet that because my superpower arose from similar circumstances. I love a good sleep, and on rainy New England Autumn mornings, that love contrasted directly with the expectation that I be at school by 7:19am.

Now, I never mastered time travel and my stunt driving is still as rusty as it gets, but as I raced to math class in the 9th grade one morning I slid through the closing door (as is habitual of the ever-late) and was turned to by a stunned teacher. “I didn’t see you until it was too late! I thought you were going to be crushed the second the door left my hand!”

I don’t claim to be able to walk through walls, but I can work out exactly how to contour through a partially closed or actively closing door. I can’t explain it. And I can’t utilize this skill (if you could call it that) to my own gain in other areas of my life. For instance, I’ve never been able to re-position and elongate my oversize rib-cage while trying on clothing or attempting to see over the heads of others at a concert. I can only do it when trying to get through doors and, as I would with any divinely given power, I’ve chosen to use it for evil.

Perhaps “evil” isn’t the correct word choice, but I sure as hell don’t use it for good. You see, I recently made a pretty significant life change. After 10 years of living in cities dominated by public transportation, I am now a suburb-dwelling commuter. The biggest shift this has brought about in me is the displacement of my daily rage. Once, not so long ago, my commute was shared, but a largely isolated event. It was filled with the sounds of podcasts that brought forth my ire relating to the American political machine, but did not involve my fellow commuters. What has changed is that, instead of headphones, I now receive these podcasts through my car’s speakers and instead of silent anger boiling up over the political landscape at large I now experience loud, spoken, direct anger brought on by a group of people so heinous I would almost rather impeachment inquiries be focused on them. These people are the lunatics who do not use their blinker. They are the same people, I’m sure, who park their SUVs in spaces clearly marked “compact” and think, “Ah ha! I’ve won. No one will park next to my impressive vehicle now. Finally my RAV4 will get the space and respect it deserves.”

Au contraire, motherfucker.

I will white-knuckle my Prius into the space next to you, open my door the few allotted inches, and slither out like a petty snake. And, before you ask - yes, I always make sure to restrict access to the driver’s side door. So, when you’re scratching your head and climbing in over your car’s transmission and center console thinking, “How did I get here?” I want you to know that I put you there.

Gotham might not sleep more safely thanks to my presence, but when it comes to inconveniencing those with inflated vehicular entitlement, I know I am the agent of small (you might even say compact) justice. Your friendly, neighborhood Peter Parker-inside-the-lines, asshole.