I want to apologize to my children for every time I thought, “Come on! It’s a bee sting. Get over it!” I was stung as a kid, and it wasn’t that bad.
Today, I was riding with the high school mountain bike team. I was dominating from the back, as usual, when someone stuck an ice pick in my forehead. I realized I had been stung, and, man, did it hurt? I wanted to ask the other guys, “Does anyone mind if we stop so I can curl up and cry for a while?” (I didn’t. I kept riding and trying to look tough.)
The pain grew and I kept thinking of my kids and how little sympathy I have for them when they have a run-in with a bee.
Now I am blogging, with a throbbing red forehead… that itches! And I am getting less sympathy than I deserve.
I am sorry, kids. You are right. It hurts.
After deciding to press on with the ride and not cry, I was doing my usual thing where I drift farther and farther off the back of the group of fearless young people. I felt a drip of sweat slowly running down my eyebrow. A moment later I realized that it was actually my six-legged assailant crawling down past my eyeball. I smacked him off my face in a reflex action and also sent my glasses flying off into the forest.
I stopped… fell farther off the pace… found my glasses… and resumed the chase.