Sunday Snippet: The Here’s a Fun Story Edition

This is an incident that happened several years before my beloved friend Dee passed away, and I’m sharing it with you because I’ve been thinking of her so much lately. Dee would have a lot to say about what’s happening in our country right now and we’d be commiserating for sure.

I remember Dee liked nothing better than a good embarrassment story particularly if it wasn’t hers, and this silly story was hands-down her favorite about me. She loved telling it to anyone we met up with and would laugh her butt off when she recounted my humiliation. So because I need to laugh right now and if she were here, Dee would probably need to to laugh, too, here goes… This one’s for you, Dee.

I am not a gardener. I think I can safely say I hate yard work—in fact, I’m going to say it right now, I hate yard work. I’m fortunate to have a spouse who views yard work as equivalent to a spa weekend. Husband actually finds it relaxing to ride his lawn tractor, shove the mower back and forth, weed-eat along the driveway, and tend the flower gardens. Watering is his moment of Zen—a time when he can let go of the stress of the day and do something completely mindless. Watering the gardens bores the dickens out of me. Weeding makes me itch, mowing makes me sneeze, and invariably some horrid bug stings or bites me.

Late one summer afternoon when we lived in our old house, I was out front weeding the flowerbeds and feeling quite virtuous—husband was going to be so proud of me. Dressed in shorts and a tank top and wearing cute little gardening gloves, I’d practically filled a five-gallon bucket with nasty unwelcome vegetation. I worked rather cautiously under the dining room window because wasps nested behind the shutters and I’d already been buzzed a couple times.

I was sweaty, dirty from wiping my brow on the hem of my tank top, and about five minutes from calling it a day when a wasp flew past my head and dive-bombed right into the round neckline of my top. Leaping up and tugging the shirt away from my body, I screeched as I shook the fabric, trying desperately to get the wasp out. I must have scared him because he sought refuge in my bra. He began to sting me and by the way, wasps can sting more than once, no matter what your grandma told you! I jerked the tank top off and pulled the cups of my bra away from my skin, but he was firmly entrenched in my cleavage. So I unhooked the bra, shook it in front of me, and finally, he flew out—apparently none the worse for the wear.

I guess this is the point where I need to add that at that time, we lived on a busy U.S. highway and it was rush hour, so cars were whizzing by at fifty-five miles an hour. The honks that ensued as I tried to get Mr. Wasp out of my bra indicated that people were indeed noticing. I was five feet from the front door, so I grabbed my tank top and ran to the stoop, bra straps at about my elbows. Shit! The screen door was locked. I’d forgotten I’d come out through the overhead garage door at the side of the house.

By that time, painful welts had begun to appear on my breasts, I was getting a little dizzy from wasp venom, although I suppose it also could have been the humiliation of some idiot hooting, “Give it to me, baby!” as he laid on his horn and drove by. I raced down the walk, head bowed, clutching the tank top to my chest, shrugging to keep the bra on my shoulders, and . . . I tripped.

I landed face-first in the gravel driveway. My bra fell completely off and I dropped the damn tank top. As I got to my knees, someone about fifteen feet away cleared his throat. I raised my eyes and saw my neighbor, Louis, standing by his riding mower with two other men. “Need some help?” he asked, and I could tell he was struggling to keep a straight face.

“No, thank you,” I muttered, as heat flushed my face, no doubt turning it about seven new shades of crimson. Mustering the last of my shredded dignity, I scooped up my clothes, stood, and walked to the garage. Those men, gentlemen all, never uttered a sound, at least that I know of. They may have rolled on the grass after I shut the door. But, the next time I saw Louis he was gracious and polite. Neither of us ever mentioned the wasp incident again and he died about a year later. (I don’t think seeing me topless had anything to do with that—he was older and had cancer.)

Here in our new home and up at the lake cottage, I weed the gardens and help with the yard, but now, I make sure husband sprays the wasps’ nests. Aging brings not only wisdom, but also a sense of humor about oneself. In years past, the “wasp incident” would have been subject non grata. I can actually tell this story and laugh about it—entering your 70s gives you perspective, doesn’t it.

So tell me, mes amis, what’s the most embarrassing moment that you can now laugh about?

Gratitude for This Week: Grandboy spent the night–we made spaghetti and meatballs, watched a movie, and started a puzzle–it was grand! Son got safely home from work travel. Bernie and AOC are bringing us together. Heard back from one of my betas–she loved my cowboy! I’m discovering less is more when it comes to sugar consumption. 

Stay well, take time to enjoy the spring sunshine on your face, choose kindness every time, and most of all, mes amis, stay grateful!