Earlier this week, I decided to go outside to check for mail. There wasn’t any mail in the mailbox, so I came back in and walked down the hall to my desk. After sitting down and resuming work, I started to hear a buzzing sound. At first, I thought it was my computer. But then I felt a tickle on my stomach.
Somehow, a bee had flown under my shirt. This was one of the scarier moments of my life.
A quick bit of explanation: My dad, who is old enough to have collected Social Security for several years, has never in his life been stung by a stinging insect. Somehow, he passed on whatever mutant gene/crazy pheromone/magical ward of +10 to stinging defense to me. I’ve been near bees many times, but have never had the misfortune to have a bee attack me with its sharp butt, dig said appendage deep into my epidermis, then have the stinger ripped off, killing the insect and inconveniencing me. But the real terror was the bee’s position: right over my bellybutton.
You see, I have an outie bellybutton. So a bee sting there would be very strange and inconvenient, especially as the weather in Phoenix is warming up to swimming pool weather. So I quickly formed a small 100% cotton cage around the bee with my apparel and crushed it like the Kids in the Hall.
After disposing of the bee’s lifeless exoskeleton, I realized that it had never tried to sting me. I had preemptively attacked an insect for no other reason than what I thought it might do. And in that moment of reflection, I realized something: I’m racist against bees.
Yeah, I’ll be getting stung soon.
