Thursday, February 11, 2016
Ouch, that hurts.
What you're looking at is my rock hard, Popeye-like, bulging forearm.
This eye-stopping level of turgidity is not the result of many hours in the gym doing preacher curls. Nor, for you prurient-minded, is it the result of any other strenuous right-handed physical exertion.
So what is it that has me writing about my abnormally swollen arm but not having it treated at the local Urgent Care Center as my wife has so wisely advised?
I got stung by a bee.
Those of you who read RoundSeventeen on a regular basis, and I think that number is somewhere near 8, may recall that I was also stung by a bee while swimming way back in April 2015. I'll save you the visual, but the result was equally tumescent and equally revolting.
On that occasion, I did see a "doctor", a fresh-off-the-boat Persian fellow who barely spoke English and apparently skipped classes at Tehran University the day they were learning about how to treat a bee sting.
Having taken a cursory look at the bee sting, he decided the best option was to administer some novocaine and "dig around with a scalpel" ( his words, not mine) hoping to find the stinger which he believed was lodged beneath the skin.
I wasn't about to go that route again.
For now, I'm just watching, with no small amount of morbid fascination, as the forearm ballooning increases and creeps its way up towards my shoulder. To be honest, it's not unlike a teenage experiment when you leave a rotting tub of cottage cheese in the fridge to see what kind of colors and growth will emerge.
I'll just keep icing it down. And enjoy this legitimate excuse to self-medicate with multiple tumblers of high octane whiskey and easy-to-swallow Vicodin.
I've also made my wife kiss the boo-boo, but she wouldn't let me take a picture of that.