A yellow jacket stung me yesterday! The ring finger of my right hand is still pink and puffy but does not hurt. We were out hiking and I touched my leg and BAM. It's been a really long time since I've gotten a bee sting. I used to get them regularly as a little, grubby kid, and I respected all wasps, bees, yellow jackets. But, I've gotten nonchalant about bees because it's been so long. When I got home, I took some Benadryl and Advil and tucked into a nap. I woke up groggy and without pain. It's good not to be allergic.
The sting reminded me of how easy it is to grow numb to dangers and how easily things can go wrong. I feel entitled to things going smoothly all the time, but it's a silly illusion of control. The yellow jacket was exploring my leg at the same time I chose to rub it-- neither of us were off target. It was even a convenient thing for that type of thing to happen-- I didn't need to be anywhere or accomplish any major feats that afternoon. It was similar to the flat tire I had on Monday, the situation could have been much worse than it was... not that there is an ideal. To quote Sting, "How fragile we are."
1 comment:
So whenever Sam gets hurt---trips, falls, skins a knee, bumps a toe---we turn and shake our finger at the offending object. Sometimes Sam even swats it. I'm going to tell you the truth: it's mostly his fault. When you are flailing the hedge clippers around above your head and they pinch your fingers, well, there's more than one side to that story. Nevertheless, it is deeply satisfying to lash out at the hedge clippers. I think you could have lashed out at the bee, but it was very mature of you to see the bees point of view.
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