I have finally been inducted into the Order of the Scorpion-stung.
But I doubt I will get any oak leaf clusters.
Monday evening, as I was preparing for bed, I gargled, brushed my teeth, and reached for the bottle containing my blood pressure pills. As I picked it up, I felt a small scratch. At first I thought I had been scraped by one of those plastic labels pharmacists up north insist on putting on pill bottles these days.
But then I felt movement. Before I could fully register this little pas de deux, I saw a brown object pirouetting toward the toilet -- probably knowing that was going to be its next home in any event. Only when it performed a perfect splash landing did I see what it was.
Of course, you know what it was -- because I already told you. A small brown scorpion. That is it at the top of this post -- doing its Michael Phelps impression in the bowl.
From everything I have heard, I am one lucky dude. I must have had my finger in just the right position to not take a full frontal hit. But it did break the flesh. And it does sting.
Did I immediately go to the internet and refresh myself on the immediate steps to take after being stung by a scorpion? Of course, not. I had to figure out how to take a macro photograph for all of you.
Even now, rather then keep my cold compress on my finger, I am typing.
I could argue that shows my dedication to you. Of course, what it proves is that my sting is not really a big deal.
And I am likely to get kicked out of my newly-admitted society.