My oldest bundle of preciousness apparently inherited my near-sightedness. After school on Friday, the two of us went to pick up her new spiffy frames at the eye doctor, two miles away. She called our return time as we walked out the door, saying to my husband, “See you in 20 minutes!”
Our eye doctor is right next to our chiropractor in a little strip of businesses where most of the parking is in the middle of the lot, in a pond of cars (it’s not big enough to be a sea). With no shade in the lot and a short walk to our destination, the Texas sun heats up every part of our exposed skin. The AC is strong at the optometrist’s office thankfully, but we don’t have to wait long as they know exactly who we are when we walk in.
My daughter sits at the table just long enough for the girl helping us to confirm that the glasses fit. I ask my big girl to read signs far away with and without her glasses and all seems well. She was right – we probably would be home within 20 minutes.
We say our thank you’s and head back out to the heated parking lot, chatting about how things look different when you get a new prescription. I share that I always felt funny walking with new glasses, like the ground is too close, and she shares that it throws her off that she can see under the glasses, between the frames and her cheeks when she looks down. Ha ha. Good times. Glasses are fun.
Our banter continues as I open her car door and close it for her after she sits. As I turn to walk to my side of the car I am stopped by something hitting my chest. I feel the slap on my bare skin only for a moment — and then realize whatever hit me FELL INTO MY SHIRT.
Listen, I am not well endowed. Nothing is ever supposed to fall down my shirt. There just isn’t much of a pathway there. Maybe cookies crumbs when I’m having a slovenly moment on my couch, but in everyday normal life, there’s no room. DO YOU HEAR ME, WASPS?! NO ROOM.
Perhaps now is good time to share that I am terrified of stinging insects. Terrified to that point that, any shit that I ever had together will be completely lost if a stinging object is within a 6 foot radius of me. I will run. I will scream. I will basically freak the eff out.
So to recap, I’m standing just outside the back passenger door of my car, my 9 year-old buckling herself inside waiting for me to get in the car and drive us home to make her 20 minute deadline when I am ATTACKED BY A FREAKING WASP.
And said freaking wasp has fallen down my shirt.
At that moment Jesus Christ himself must have spoken to soul, because I suddenly knew that my normal defense of running and screaming would likely not help. It would likely make everything much, much worse.
And so I held my breath.
I looked down my shirt.
I saw the GOD DAMN FREAKING WASP on the inside of my shirt, at the very bottom.
I oh-so-calmly-and-slowly flipped the bottom of my shirt up and hoped for the best.
I think Jesus spoke to soul of the wasp, too, and told it to get the fuck away from me.
Thank you, Jesus.
The mother effing wasp flew away and died a horrible death. I mean, I hope it did. I don’t know where the hell it went.
My life having been spared, I walked to my side of the car, opened my door, sat down, closed the door, and exhaled. And my daughter was still chatting away, as if I hadn’t just almost died. What the hell, kid? And then I told her what happened and she insisted that I didn’t almost die. The mouth on that child.
We returned home, 20 minutes after we’d left, and my husband was only mildly impressed by my survival story. All anybody really cared about was my daughter’s new glasses. PRIORITIES, people. Geez.
P.S. To my knowledge I have no allergies to wasp stings.
P.P.S. I know Jesus didn’t speak to the wasp’s soul. Wasps are soulless bastards.
P.P.P.S. I don’t know if it was a wasp. All the flying stinging things look the same to me. But it probably was a wasp.
P.P.P.P.S. This wasp has confirmed that running and screaming from stinging objects is always the right move. Always. Unless it falls down your shirt.