Sometimes we get stung by bees

How have I manged to get to nearly the end of my fifties and not get stung by a bee? Actually, many years ago I stepped on a dead bee, and it stung me, and although that story relates so beautifully to a running joke in the movie To Have and Have Not (Hemingway via Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart), I never counted it as a real bee sting. Still today when I was weeding right next to the rose bushes in their second bloom and the butterfly bushes, which attract a lot of bees, and I felt a sharp prick under my arm, I knew that was no mosquito. So what was the first thing I did about it? Tweet. Lo and behold, someone was actually reading my Twitter. “Are you allergic?” asked Kareem Johnson, a nice young man I know through my social media contacts who is trying to find a journalism job in NYC. (I’ve added him to the list of talented, nice, smart young people to whom the so-called stars of Jersey Shore should donate their salaries.) Having never had a “real” bee sting, I had no idea. I was breathing normally, however, and the spot under my arm, though sore and swollen, felt OK after an hour or so. I did have some tingling and numbness, but those who know me know that I don’t get especially worked up over bumps and bruises or coughs and colds. How nice though, to return to my computer this evening and find this tweet: Thanks Kareem. Thanks Twitter.