The Birds and The Bees … Actually, Just The Bees

Regrettably, I mentioned earlier this week that I will be participating in a triathlon this weekend. I say regrettably because now I actually have to do this thing since enough of you read my post and wished me luck. Thanks for that (still looking for sarcasm font).

Who knew, though, that a simple 45 minute training session for said race would result in a misinterpreted kidnapping, frantic nudity, screaming, and an afternoon of blissful sleep … followed by horrendous itching?

What? None of this makes sense? Please. Let me explain. I am nothing if not compelling (seriously, when will someone develop that sarcasm font?! I can’t go much longer without it.)

I decided to accompany my friend on a bike ride in a last ditch effort to train for the bike portion of the triathlon from hell. “Cramming” for a triathlon like you do, say, for a biology test, is perfectly acceptable and, more importantly, foolproof. I find preparing for things in a half-ass way usually works out fine.

So about 30 minutes into our torturous ride (note to self: half-ass does not, in fact, work out “fine”), I finally hit a down hill where I could just coast.

I know what you’re thinking, but no. This did not happen.

bicycle3

Something so much better!!

I am flying down the hill like Lance Armstrong (pretending to know what I’m doing from that one 4th of July bike parade at the beach, but unfortunately, not doped up on drugs) when I feel something hit my chest. I’m wearing a V neck shirt, so whatever it is, hits me directly on my skin. Hard. I scream. Loud.

I shove my hand down my shirt in an attempt to get whatever it is out. And then the fun part begins! It starts moving … whatever this thing is. Not just anywhere, though. It starts moving toward my boob. And then it’s on my precious double D’s and it’s clearly headed right for … well, it’s headed right for my goddamn nipple.

I am shrieking like a lunatic, hand still shoved down my shirt, bike weaving, as I feel myself get stung. By a bee. On my nipple.

Did you read that? Because I want you to fully understand what happened. A bee stung my nipple.

friendly bee_thumb[4]

In the meantime, my friend is behind me and doesn’t realize that the screaming is coming from me. Apparently I sound like an 8 year old boy screaming in the woods whilst being kidnapped. Right before she pulls over, darts into the woods, saves the boy’s life, and becomes the national hero that she will eventually become, she realizes it’s me.

She decides I’m more important than the 8 year old non-existent boy (love you, J!!) and screams at me to pull over. We stand on the side of the path – her drowning my boob with water while I strip down. What I find interesting is that several people walked by us and didn’t say a thing. I guess this kind of thing happens all the time? I’m sure it looked perfectly normal – me exposing my breast on a public bike path while my friend splatters water all over my chest. Maybe people thought it was a wet t-shirt contest??

Anyway, long story short, after crying for a good 10 minutes and shouting out things like, “Why me?!” and “Are you fucking kidding me?!” and “What are the FUCKING chances?!” (this was my friend, by the way, screaming about how screwed she’s been with me as a training partner), we headed to the pharmacy for some heavy duty Benedryl.

I slept for 4 hours. I’m pretty sure that’s the longest stretch I’ve had since BK (before kids). The left double D, “Betsy”, is still pretty itchy (she briefly blew up to an F, but wasn’t able to maintain … poor thing), but very proud of herself for surviving the ordeal. Unblemished righty, “Olga”, is sick of “Betsy’s” incessant bragging and has informed me on numerous occasions that she’s planning some sort of intervention to get Betsy to shut the fuck up.

Good news? Training is done for the bike ride! NAILED IT!!

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