blog entry

Bitten

Sunday morning. Afton mountain. I step outside barefoot to grab something out of my car. I'm rummaging around in the glove box when I feel an intense, piercing pain on the bottom of my foot. I wonder if maybe a vicious wolverine has attacked with its pointy teeth; or a snake. I swat at whatever-it-is and look down to see a yellowjacket. They're black and yellow striped and big and mean. The pain is searing, like a hot poker. I spend the day hopping around, wishing for crutches, and drive back to Richmond with my foot pressed against the only thing that dulls the pain: a package of frozen hot dogs. I read online that a yellowjacket sting can kill a person who is allergic--a policeman's obituary is there to prove it. I am not allergic, but I briefly consider cutting my foot off to stop the burning. Advil. Benadryl. Epsom salts. Ice packs. It hurts into the wee hours of the night. This morning, 24 hours later, it's gone. What did we learn from this? One word: Shoes.