Buzzkill

Many years ago, I made a deal with the bees.

If I save them from drowning, they promise not to sting me.

This deal was official and binding, and signed in honey.

We were both keeping up our end of the bargain until a month ago.

I was swimming laps at my gym, preparing for our upcoming Hawaiian vacation, when suddenly a sharp pain shot through my finger.

In my red bathing suit, I emerged from the water and started running

Like in Baywatch.

Well, Baywatch, the Geriatric Years.

I raced inside the gym, holding my injured finger in the air.

Fortunately I knew the front desk team, Josh, Tim, and Ty, would take good care of me.

They were a friendly trio, always telling me to, “Have a good workout!”

“I got stung,” I said, pointing to the stinger protruding from my middle finger. 

There was a long pause as they glanced at one another.

Remember Tuesday afternoon, when you asked, “How can I help you?”

THIS IS HOW!

They still didn’t respond.

“Please get it out!” I pleaded.

“Yikes!” Tim finally said.

My finger was turning red and starting to swell, which was concerning since I was allergic to bees.

And they were allergic to helping.

“I don’t know,” Tim said, shaking his head. “Why don’t you try and get it out?”

Ah, chivalry is alive and well at the Simi Valley Gym!

“Because I can’t see without my glasses,” I said.

(Sheesh, Tim, if you had read my story, “Eye of the Cheetah,” you would have known that!)

“Well, I don’t want to get stung,” Tim said.

“You can’t get stung,” I explained. “The stinger is already in MY finger.”

We argued about second-hand stinging as bee venom continued to seep into my system.

“Can you at least find some tweezers?” I asked.

“Sure,” Tim said. 

Then he started opening drawers with the speed and enthusiasm of the Zootopia sloth.

Josh and Ty also helped.

And by “helped,” I mean, they made remarks like, “Dude, that looks bad!” 

A throbbing pain pulsated in my finger.

Finally, Tim pulled out a couple of pens.

I need to remove the stinger, not write about it. 

Except, I actually will write about it, so good thinking, Tim.

“Maybe I could use the caps like tweezers,” he suggested.

When he finally removed it, he smiled and nodded. “I think I got some of the stinger,” he said. 

That’s my fault, Tim. I didn’t specify I wanted “ALL OF THE STINGER!”

In the next couple days, my finger took on new tones of purple.

Silver Lining: I look really good in purple!

But it wasn’t just my finger.

My hand resembled Mickey Mouse’s.

(Have you seen the paws on that rat?)

But not to worry because I had an appointment with our new doctor, Dr. P.

I hadn’t met her yet, but Steve assured me she was THE BEST!

When Dr. P sauntered in the room in her pink scrubs, her dark, shiny hair cascading down her back, and her radiant skin glowing, I understood why Steve called her “THE BEST!”

Okay, Dr. Pretty, I know you could guest star on Grey’s Anatomy, but can you fix my finger?

“OH MY!” Dr. P exclaimed, as she leaned in for a closer look. 

Her beautiful eyes widened at such a horrific sight. “I’ve never seen anything like this!”

A few minutes later, Dr. P frantically called in Dr. C for a second opinion. 

There were gasps and furrowed brows. Dr. C asked if he could take pictures of my hand.

This was the closest I’d ever get to being a model, so of course, I said yes.

After the photo shoot, Dr. P then informed me that the stinger was probably still in my finger, but it’s best we just leave it BEE.

Dr. C chuckled. “Good one!”

Yes, puns are fun. But do you know what else is fun?

Pills!

“May I have some drugs please?” I asked.

Dr. P wrote me a prescription for antibiotics.

Unfortunately, she prescribed me ones that only partially worked.

Again, my fault. I should have requested the ones that FULLY worked.

So, here I am, a month later, in Hawaii…

With a finger the size of a sausage.

I’m on a new round of antibiotics, and under strict instructions not to get my finger wet.

Which is why I’m standing in waist-deep water, keeping my hand high in the air, like an air traffic controller.

My family waves to me as they snorkel with the turtles.

A bee buzzes menacingly by.

Before he flies away, I call after him…

“WE HAD A DEAL!”