Bee Stings

Maybe one of the major reasons I don’t have Facebook, Twitter, Instagram or whatever the newest and greatest is I know nothing about is because I simply don’t enjoy telling every moment of my life to the entire world. Honestly, nobody cares that I stopped by Starbucks some random morning. Or that I did my hair differently two weeks ago. Or the truly embarrassing scenario at work last week the involved my keyboard and…yeah, I’ll stop there. Ethan’s teething again and I’m living on five or less hours of sleep a night. At least, that was my excuse. 

So, if Facebook had been around 23 years ago, I would have been very loathe to share the story of my first (and only) time of getting stung. It involved sitting on the bee, high leaps of dexterity over car seats and lots of screaming. To this day, it is one of the few stories about me my siblings bring up quite often with great joy. For getting stung by a bee is not embarrassing in and of itself, but one’s reaction may very well be.

This summer, 23 years of not one sting later, I have been stung twice. The first time was the very day I vainly attempted to cut off my finger with the immersion blender. That afternoon, the kids and I were outside enjoying popsicles when a bee simply landed on my hand, stung me and flew off. Really? It was very minor – not even a stinger to pull out – but after all I had already been through with that same hand that day…really?!?!?

The second time was at my parents a couple of weeks ago. We enjoyed a wonderful morning of apple picking and were completing the pleasant time with a tractor ride. Just as the driver slowed down and told us he was quieting the engine as we passed within twenty or thirty feet of the bee hives, a bee who apparently thought the engine was not quiet enough and it was my fault somehow landed in the heart pendant of my necklace and got stuck. Initial reaction: swat at it. A lot. This caused my necklace to fly up towards my lips where the really angry bee happily stung me. Now I was as angry at it was, swatted it more until it fell out onto the floorboards so I could end it’s life with a hard stomp. Apparently, the stinger was just hanging there so my dad pulled it out. Yes, I confess I was a bit hysterical and shed a few tears. The only thing anyone had to put on it at that moment was some lip balm my sister Jenny handed me. The lip balm was made my Burt’s Bees. Oh, the irony.

I felt like I had just left the dentist office after having a tooth pulled. It didn’t look so bad in the mirror, but it felt three times the right size. It did itch for a few hours that day. Strangely, a week later, it started itching again and became swollen for about 36 hours. I don’t know what that was about, but now all that’s left is a small bump where it stung me that no one can see. And a determination to go another 23 years before I get stung again.