My husband, Dan, and I spent the fourth of July hiking and mountain biking. But (surprise, surprise!) this is not a post about my debilitating fear of heights.
Bugs hate me . . . or maybe they really like me. Either way you look at it, they are annoying. And, no, I don't wear a bunch of perfumes and lotions when I am being outdoorsy. Bugs do not hate/like Dan as much as me. Maybe my sweat is sweeter. I do sweat a lot.
A typical scenario after any given outdoor adventure goes like this:
"Becky," Dan will say pathetically, "look at this bug bite."
"You call that a bite?" And I will reveal about five or six bites on the back of my shoulder or my calf or underneath the seam of my sports bra. "This is a bite!"
The bug bite ratio in our relationship is about five to one.
I am pretty sure I have built up immunity to West Nile by now. They should probably think about using my blood to develop an antidote.
And I always douse myself in bug spray before venturing into the great outdoors.
Over the fourth, the fun started when I was adjusting my backpack. I felt a strange pinch and something with a hard shell on the back of my neck, right at my hairline.
"Dan," I said fairly calmly, "I think something's on me."
"Whoa!" (When Dan reacts with a shocked, "Whoa!" not a smirk, a stifled laugh, or a snort, I know it's bad.) "Hold still."
I, of course, did the exact opposite.
I threw off my pack and jumped around, shouting, "Get it off me! Get it off me!"
The thing that eventually came off of me looked something like this:
"This is not a good start to our ride," I remarked.
By the time we stopped for a water break, three bugs had flown into my mouth, two had landed on my legs, and one had landed in my ear. The bug spray was not working.
"I think that bug might still be in my ear. It's awfully itchy," I said.
Dan pretended to examine my ear, "Nope, bug free."
"Yeah, you know nothing, Jon Snow . . ." I grumbled.
The next day, we went hiking, and Dan spent much of the time shooing away the flies that kept circling my head.
"I think this fly thinks you're a horse because of your ponytail."
"Great."
"At least you can flip them away with your ponytail . . . just like a horse."
"Thanks, Dan."
When he swatted my butt for the fifth time, I turned around and said, "Are that many flies landing on my butt, or are you just swatting it for fun?"
"A little bit of both," he replied with a grin.
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