Wasp’s Revenge

There are certain moments in life where you realize you’re not as nimble as you used to be, and for me, that moment came twelve feet up on a ladder with a wasp eyeballing me—literally.

Now, I’m not a bug killer. I leave spiders to weave their little corner hammocks, let ants carry on with their crumb-moving parade, and even give the occasional housefly a polite ushering toward the screen door.

Live and let live, that’s my motto. But there are limits, and those limits come into sharp focus when a wasp decides my eyeball looks like a reasonable place to land.

I froze, thinking, don’t blink, don’t twitch, don’t sneeze. The wasp didn’t move.

I started to wonder if he was admiring the view, like a tourist on top of the Empire State Building. Meanwhile, I was perched on the ladder, trying to look casual while my body screamed.

Finally, my nerves said, “That’s it, we’re outta here.”

I bailed, not climbed or descended gracefully. I bailed.

Now, in my mind, I was going to land like a gymnast—light on my feet, knees bent, arms raised, sticking the landing like I’d just nailed a perfect dismount in the Olympics. In reality, gravity had other plans.

My left knee twisted in a way that knees shouldn’t twist, and suddenly I wasn’t thinking about the wasp anymore. I was contemplating whether or not I’d ever play hopscotch again.

But here’s the thing–stubbornness is a powerful drug. I hobbled around, finished up a couple more hours of work, and then drove myself home.

I figured if I just walked it off, things would be fine. People have survived worse.

Cowboys used to ride a hundred miles on busted legs, right? Well, turns out I am not a cowboy anymore.

Two hours later, when “walking it off” looked more like “wincing in place,” I admitted defeat and headed for urgent care.

The doctor didn’t seem too impressed with my cowboy routine. He looked at my swollen knee, strapped me in a brace, handed me crutches, and gave me the kind of look usually reserved for folks who think duct tape counts as first aid.

“Next time,” he said, “don’t jump off the ladder.”

I wanted to tell him it wasn’t a jump, it was a strategic retreat. But I figured that would only earn me more side-eye, so I kept quiet.

Now, most people would take that as a lesson learned. Rest up, ice the knee, and avoid ladders for a while. But the universe wasn’t done teaching me.

The very next day, I hobbled outside to breathe some fresh air, and wouldn’t you know it, a wasp came buzzing by and—without hesitation—stung me right on the neck. No eyeball landing this time, no warning, just a quick jab like he was settling a score.

I don’t know if it was the same wasp from the ladder or his cousin coming to finish the job, but I got the message loud and clear, “I am on their list.”

The way I see it, there are two kinds of people in this world. Some folks go around declaring war on nature, stomping, spraying, and swatting at anything smaller than a house cat. Then there are folks like me, who try to keep the peace—until nature reminds us that peace is a two-way street.

So now I move a little slower with my brace and crutches, giving the bugs their space. If a wasp wants to buzz by my ear, I let it.

I’ve learned to negotiate. My only rule is this–stay away from the eyes.

As for ladders, well, I’ve developed a healthy respect for them. And for gravity. And for the fact that no matter how careful or kind-hearted you are, sometimes life swats you when you least expect it.

But that’s all right. It’s just another reminder that being gentle doesn’t mean life will always be gentle back.

It just means you get to laugh at the mess—and hobble off with a good story to tell.