Watch Out for the Buzz

Some of my best childhood memories revolve around times I spent helping my dad tend to his much-loved vegetable garden. Whether we were tilling or weeding or staking tomato plants or picking the various veggies, Daddy had a way of always making the work seem more like fun than work. I remember how he would whistle and sing, and I'll never forget the stories he told ... he was the best storyteller ever. Yep, I loved, loved, loved being in the garden with Daddy until one fateful day when I was 12 years old ... the day when something happened that left an indelible scar on both of us ... the day when the hurt and pain that occurred forever changed the way we felt about picking okra ... that day ... that fateful day when a gigantic wasp flew out of one of the okra blooms and stung me.

Now I'm sure you're wondering how in the world something as minor as a wasp sting could have such a powerful and lasting impact on Daddy and me, and under normal wasp stinging conditions I would understand your questioning of the validity of my claims. But that day was far, far, far from any normal wasp stinging day ... that day, the wasp stung me on the ... well ... the wasp stung me right on the ... ummm ... the wasp stung me right smack dab on the ... well ... right on the end of my breast. You know ... right on the part of my breast that rhymes with the word ripple. And yes, it hurt like nothing had ever hurt in my entire life. And to add overwhelming embarrassment to injury, Mom wasn't home so it was Daddy who had to ... well ... it was Daddy who had to remove the stinger. I'm fairly certain that was the most awkward and embarrassing moment I ever experienced with my dad ... sheesh, my poor dear old Daddy. The things parents do for their children ... sheesh, sheesh, sheesh.

Bet you can never guess what happened to me this past Sunday while I was mowing the yard ... yep, I got stung by a wasp. I'm sure my neighbors thought I really had gone off the deep end from the way I yelped just before I took off running and screaming into my house. And nope, I didn't get stung on my boob this time ... this time, the devilish little creature stung me on the front of my neck, and I think it may have hurt even more than getting stung on the word that rhymes with ripple all those years ago. And of course I have a super fancy event to attend on Friday evening ... of course I do now that I have what looks to be a cross between a hickey and a giant zit on the front of my neck. Seriously awesome, eh? Please allow me to answer that ... ummm ... not freaking hardly awesome in any way, shape, form or fashion.

So here's the thing ... I know I'm probably supposed to find deep hidden meaning or significance to getting stung by the wasp on Sunday, but I've got nothing. Nothing except a sore neck and more than a dollop of embarrassment. Oh wait a sec ... I get it ... my most recent encounter with a wasp is to teach me not to be vain or conceited about my outward appearance, but rather to have an ever-present spirit of humility and to understand that true beauty comes from within. Nope ... not working tonight ... I've got a wasp sting the size of a major metropolitan city right in the middle of my neck and it makes me nauseous when I look in the mirror. Maybe when it's all healed, I'll get the deeply meaningful lesson of the sting, but for now ... for now, I need an ice pack, some anti-itch cream and a good night's sleep.

Watch out for the buzz, friends ...