Humor

by Sally Sheklow

THE STING

A pesky bug and a swollen mug remind that looks fortunately aren't everything

I can barely see. My face would be a great science-fair entry demonstrating the histamine response. It's swollen from the brows down to where my jaw used to be, leaving only tiny jack-o-lantern eye triangles and a bridgeless nose.

The unidentified flying insect left no pulsing stinger, no consolation that at least the perp is worse off than I am-just a teensy red dot right between the eyes. A perfect shot by the Annie Oakley of yellow jackets or hornets or whatever the heck it was. I never saw it.

I had been pruning overgrown shrubs when a sudden sharp pain in the middle of my forehead alerted me that something wasn't right. I stood still, like a dog trying to figure out what happened to the ball you just hid behind your back. Eventually-and this shows that humans actually are more intelligent than dogs-I deduced from the loud buzzing sound in my hair that stinging insects were nearby. Luckily I had the wherewithal to drop my pruners before I started flailing at my scalp.

I ran inside, grabbed an ice cube and rubbed it on the throbbing spot between my eyebrows. If you want to know how to get an ice cream headache without eating ice cream, ask me!

My face started puffing up like a Jiffy-Pop bag. While I could still see the phone, I called Ask-a-Nurse. "Keep icing it," she told me, stifling a snicker. "Life-threatening allergic reactions usually happen within the first hour."

By the clock, I was out of the woods. But I kept checking my pulse anyway. I put on clean underwear just in case I was about to become the Should-Have-Carried-a-Bee-Sting-Kit poster girl.

Now my vision is framed with pillowy shadows of puffy flesh. My lower lids are pink mounds making everything look like I'm seated behind two big bald guys. Goop keeps oozing out of my tear ducts, giving the effect of one of those movies where they show someone's psychedelic experience by smearing Vaseline on the lens.

My face is so distorted I couldn't pick myself out of a line-up. The stranger in the mirror looks like a cross between Margaret Cho and a Cabbage Patch doll. If I were in Beverly Hills I would fit right in with all the other bad Botox jobs. But I don't fit in around here, where most people can move their eyebrows.

I'm sure the "Oh my God, what happened to you?" response seems original to the person saying it. Call me antisocial. I would like to hole up until this passes. But I have to brave the world-the hardware store part of it, anyway. Today is my last chance to exchange the 120 baseboard heater for the 240 that we should have ordered in the first place, but who knew? The high-pitched hum and orange-red glow tipped us off-and here's another example of that smarter-than-dogs thing-that the heater we had bought was too wimpy for the voltage surging through it. Kinda like my face feels right now.

Should I call and warn them? Do I need to wear a sign that says "Not my real face?" It's not that I care about looking beautiful for the heater guys. But I don't want to freak people out.

I wish I could make everyone rent Mask and be reminded that how we appear isn't the essence of who we are. Then again, that boy finds true love with a girl who thinks he is beautiful, but only because she is blind.

Too bad there aren't enough blind people to go around. Lucky for me that even though my sweetie's eyesight is fine, she still sees and loves the real me inside this distort-o-face. At least she says she does.

Sally Sheklow struggles to take life seriously. Send your fan mail to sally@wymprov.com