Essay — Bee Sting

Thanks for sharing this!

I’m here to tell you–if you sit on a wasp, you’ll get stung. It will be painful; you’ll get a lot of kidding, but very little sympathy.

That’s what I found out last week when I came out of the house, camera in hand, to take a picture of the roses and pansies blooming together in one pot.

Angling for a better shot, I backed to the bench on my deck. As I sat down, something that felt like a white-hot needle stabbed through my shorts and into my upper thigh.

Yikes, a yellow jacket with good aim!

Image source: Richard Bartz, Munich, via Wikimedia Commons

Image source: Richard Bartz, Munich, via Wikimedia Commons

Rushing into the house, I grabbed the meat tenderizer, added some water and proceeded to marinate my puncture wound.

Ah, relief. End of problem.

Ha! Ha! Get real.

Soon a red blotch the size of a dinner plate tingled, prickled, burned and itched its way around my leg. I slapped on anti-scratch cream, extra-strength pain reliever, and even a bag of frozen peas.

Nothing worked.

Finally, I phoned my firstborn son who’d survived a lot of bee stings, and asked his advice. He suggested I try an antihistamine pill.

Looking for some empathy, I said, “I’d feel a lot better if the nasty little critter hadn’t lived and flown away.”

To which the kid I’d once consoled with lots of mommy hugs said around a chuckle, “Maybe you should have sat on him longer.”

I’m sure he was joking. It’s just too bad he hung up before I could tell him I was changing my will.

***

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We write. Visit us in Carpenter Country, a magical place that, like our stories, is unreal but not untrue.

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