Special Guest Blogger: Greek God Hermes

Listen, I’m a man of brevity. I’m the god of the quick text, the short-range herald but I have notes. I have many, many notes.
First of all, let’s address the the wings on my feet. Being the Messenger of the Gods is not the glamorous gig the poets made it out to be. Homer really glossed over the chafing. Do you have any idea what kind of aerodynamic drag you get from a brimmed hat when you’re breaking the sound barrier? It’s a nightmare for the neck muscles.
And the sandals? Let’s talk about the Talaria. You think your fancy carbon-plated running shoes are high performance? Please. My footwear has a mind of its own. They don’t just cushion the impact but occasionally decide to chase a hawk mid-delivery because they think it’s a game. I’ve spend half of eternity trying to steer my own feet while Zeus screams at me to deliver a very important lightning bolt to some king in Phrygia who forgot to say bless you after a sneeze.
I’m basically the universe’s most overworked delivery driver, except I don’t get tips, and if I’m late, I get turned into a shrub.
Before we get to my main grievance, let’s talk about my resume. People see me and think, Oh, look at the cute guy with the wings, he’s like the ancient version of ther Royal Mail.
Excuse me? I am the God of Commerce. If you’ve ever bought something on sale, that was me. I’m the God of Travelers. If you’ve ever found a shortcut that saved you five minutes, you’re welcome. I’m the God of Language. If you’ve ever used a double entendre to make a colleague laugh, that’s my bread and butter.
I also invented the lyre out of a tortoise shell because I was bored at four hours old. Then I stole Apollo’s cows just to see if I could. I’m the patron of thieves, liars, and politicians (usually the same thing to be honest).
I have a legacy of speed, wit, and high-stakes negotiation. So why, in the name of my father’s lightning-scarred glutes, is my face, specifically my staff, plastered all over the American medical system?
It’s a lot of emotional labour which is why, when I finally get a break, I like to look down at Earth. And what do I see? I see my staff on your pharmacies. I see my wings on your health insurance cards.
America. We need to talk about the Caduceus.
You know the one. My beautiful staff. Two serpents entwined in a lovely symmetrical dance, topped with a majestic pair of wings. It screams elegance but it does not scream, I am a trained medical professional who knows how to remove an appendix.
Somehow, around the turn of the 20th century, the US Army Medical Corps looked at both and said, The one with two snakes and wings looks way cooler. Let’s go with that.
Guys. You picked the symbol of the God of Thieves and Merchants to represent your healthcare.
Do you realize how funny that is to us on Olympus? I’m literally the god who guides souls to the Underworld. That is my job. I meet you at the finish line and walk you to Hades. If I’m showing up at a hospital, it’s usually because someone is leaving.
When I’m not being misidentified by the Surgeon General, my life is a blur of high-speed errands. People think being a god is all ambrosia and harp music. No. It’s mostly logistics.
Zeus would tell me to tell Poseidon to stop making the earthquakes and I would zip down to the Mariana Trench and tell Poseidon who would send me back with a message to tell Zeus to stop letting his eagles poop on his dolphins.
Then there’s the Underworld shifts. Do you know how depressing it is to spend your Tuesday afternoon explaining to a ghost that, no, they can’t bring their emotional support peacock into the Elysian Fields and to leave it at the Styx and that happens more than you would think.