Functional Discomfort

I was locking up the house to go for a bike ride yesterday, and a wasp rudely stung me on the neck. I jumped, swatted, yelled “OWWWW!” and – from the other side of the door – my dog started up a loud round of “someone-hurt-you-no-no-no-let-me-at-them-and-I-will-show-them-what-I-think-about-someone-hurting-MY-LADY” barking.

Fidgeting and swelling, I fumbled with the door, told the dog “I appreciate your concern, but I really need you to shut up NOW”, looked for a stinger in the bathroom mirror and melted an ice-cube into my neck while thumb-googling “wasp sting first aid”. I didn’t think I was allergic, but in all fairness I haven’t been stung by a wasp since, probably, the 1980s. My 2013 body reacts to a lot of things very differently than my 1980s body did, so I thought it wisest to wait a bit, instead of hopping on my bike to collapse, hive-covered, in a ditch somewhere. A somewhat recent incident with a pal steadily itching then ballooning after a bee-sting (I ended up chauffeuring her to the emergency room for her first Epipen) was fresh enough in my mind that I wanted to play it safe.

Of course my metronome was handy, so I measured my pulse (at 63 bpm, elevated by my usual standards). I cleaned out the sting and smeared some Sudocrem under a soft plaster. I texted my love, on the offchance I was mysteriously unconscious when he came home. Things were fine. I went out for 10ish miles.

I’m actually grateful for the sting, because figuring out I’m not allergic was a lot easier and less stressful at home than it would be on the trail.