I’m a mess. Imagine being blowtorched for a millisecond. That’s me. My beacon-red face is bowling ball-round, with little slit-eyes and a mop of embarrassed hair that’s too short to hide the damage.
Alas, no-see-ums, who’ve waited patiently all summer for me to make a mistake, have gleefully made a meal of my forehead. (Mosquitoes whine, then bite, which makes their ‘food’ yelp ‘n slap, but no-see-ums are stealthy, nearly invisible specks.) A hungry herd noticed that I’d decided NOT to wear the bug veil on Tuesday. “It’s October- windy and cold,” I’d intoned. “ Bugs are done!” Uh-huh.
And so they pounced.
I no-feeled-‘em until much later.
I stood in front of the bathroom mirror Tuesday evening and watched with resignation as my forehead ballooned to the size of a loaf of pre-lunch appetizer bread. The poison then seeped down into my face. Perennial experience has taught me to slather on OTC hydrocortisone cream, grit my teeth and lie low till I’m decent again. (Antihistamine tablets make me bug-eyed. The sleepy sort produces a meld-into-the-couch zombie, so I’ll indulge only at bedtime.)
Though the cortisone cools me slightly, I’m still riotously RED.
In fact, I glow.
Thursday I biked to a nearby grocery shop.
Shouldn’t have.
“Are you all right, dear?” A reasonable question from the concerned clerk, so I explained. “I’m fine, but violently allergic to no-see-ums, who took advantage of me in my own garden. Unless I die of embarrassment, I’ll survive this.”
She remained horrified.
Returning home I pedaled my bike too fast, held my head high to cool my bugged mug, and bumped into a bush. We both bent, but didn’t break.
There’s hidden damage, too: I’ve a sore behind, from kicking myself.
It takes at least a week before I can face the nation.
This is so my fault.
But it’s always a good mental exercise to hunt for a pony in the poop. Accordingly, I’ve come up with three dubious plusses.
-I haven’t got one wrinkle. My somewhat crumpled paper bag face is as smooth as a baby’s bottom. I actually found myself preening in front of the dimly lit bathroom mirror, reliving how it used to look. So there’s that.
-My nose, usually quite cold, is toasty warm from the reflected heat of its cheeky neighbors.
-Blusher is unnecessary.
I’m reaching, I know. But I’m an optimist.
As I crept past Petertyl Drugs today a toddler pointed a pudgy finger at me and yelled, “Mama!” All I could do was mutter, “I’ve been bug-bombed,” before scuttling away. What did mama make of that?
Worse, as I slunk into Fustini’s Oils and Vinegars shop, a lady whispered to her friend- “Ahh! I know that look. She’s recovering from a laser treatment for wrinkle reduction, but came out of hiding too soon, poor thing.” I turned ever redder and fled, too mortified to correct her. Twit, I muttered, meaning myself. Silly twits deserve whatever humiliating words waft their way.
There are colors I can’t wear.
Red. Black. White.
I look much worse if I forget this.
So, how does a flame-red bowling ball who needs to eat but can’t face the (stove) heat, manage to? She’ll creep into a darkish bar/restaurant after the lunch crowd has dispersed, bring a tall book and order something without looking up.
But one waiter was sharp. “Good heavens, woman! What happened to you? Been slapped around? Can I help?”
Sigh…A girl could take advantage of the situation and maybe wrangle a free lunch…but I confessed to being bitten by invisible experts, and explained my own culpability. After a fascinated inspection he went off, shaking his head. I was left in the gloom to brood and glow, and drown my sorrow in words and ice water.
‘Once bitten, twice shy’ is true: this annual, preventable mistake makes me incredibly shy and furtive for a long time. Who wants to advertise a room temperature IQ?
'An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure,' but every year my tsunami-like optimism (that bug season has come and gone) overwhelms my sensible little voice, which screams NO!!
-And so-
I flame out. 
It’s become a tradition.