great lengths

During my childhood, I experienced the worst half-week of my life. It was a youth "camping" trip, but we weren't really camping. We just spent all day doing "fun activities" outside.

On the worst day of the worst half-week of my life, the morning was spent doing a "ropes course." We all had some ropes, and by tying the ropes into knots and then doing something where our bodies were all squeezed through the knots, we were supposed to bond together. This activity was done in the back yard of one of the little houses we were "camping" in. The yard was a half-cleared woody area: Tick Heaven. Since we all thought we were going to a ropes course that would involve swings and zip lines and jumping into the nearby lake, we were wearing shorts. The ticks were pretty happy that afternoon.

After inspecting my legs and feeling pretty safe, unlike some of the other sad kids, I decided the worst part of the day (the ropes course) was over. I did not realize that I was wrong until my evening shower, which is when I felt it: a small bump, right in the very middle of the back of the upper thigh area. Yes, reader, I am talking about my butt. There was no chance that I was ever going to be able to turn around or stretch or squeeze or contort my leg in some way to be able to see exactly what the bump was, but I knew it was not a mosquito bite. I also knew that scratching the body off was not going to solve the problem. Terrified of lyme disease, the chance that this bug could somehow give me an STD or blood sickness, and very far away from my mom, I did the only thing I could do: dry off, find the adult I trusted the most (the one that reminded me the most of my mom), and tell them the bad news. The adult then proceeded to get the tick off of my butt while I laid face-down on her bed, because this was not a camp with nurses. Although I ran away in shame after my butt was bugless, I am forever indebted to that adult.

Anyways, tonight I was putting on my PJ's and noticed a small brown freckle on my shoulder that looked a little bit like a tick. Knowing that my dad found a tick on his leg just a few days ago, and also knowing that I spent about an hour outside today (mostly on a clean back porch, but hey, ticks get around), I figured they had come for me. Wasting no time, I tried to tweezer it off to no avail. It was looking more like a mole than a tick at this point, but half-crazed with fear and vengeance, I literally poked the thing with tweezers and nail clippers until I had cut the top of the mole off and was bleeding profusely.

I looked at myself in the mirror. "Is this what it has come to, you crazy lady?"

"Yes. Yes it has."

May it be a warning to all ticks that are tempted by my olive-toned and sticky skin: I would literally rather bleed myself dry than let you thrive. Don't try me.