In a twist of fate I totally saw coming, the old story of the Boy Who Cried Wolf took on a new significance today in the life of my friend Página.
The day started out innocently enough- I
infiltrated a third world country woke up at the crack of 9:30 and headed out to a local waterpark, along with Página, The Rock, and The Engineer. When we arrived, my so-called friends immediately tried to kill me by making me ride the most terrifying waterslide they could find. To be clear, this was no ordinary waterslide. Instead of just sitting down and pushing off, the unfortunate rider is made to stand on a small platform, which drops from beneath you following a terrifying countdown courtesy of an automated voice. I understand that whoever designed this feature probably imagined it would add excitement to the ride. However, when facing a drop to my death I prefer to keep added excitement to a minimum.
My friends, being hooligans, seemed to enjoy the experience. At least now the theory that I have nine lives (well, eight after today) has been verified.
Following my untimely death, we headed to the concession stand for lunch. The meal was proceeding unremarkably when a bee started buzzing the table. The Engineer, stoic that she is, continued to pick at her chicken strips while The Rock and I watched with some degree of apprehension. Página, however, did what I like to call “completely freaking out.” She screamed and backed away from the table at high speed. Though she did try to return to the table and so continue her lunch, she was eventually forced to retreat to another table along with the Rock. The Engineer and I stuck it out a bit at the bee-infested table, because we are independent spirits, and also because walking requires effort, man.
The day carried on normally enough afterwards, although Página was jumpier than usual, on the lookout for the bees she was sure was hunting her; tragically, we ignored her concern.
Then, in route from a waterslide, it happened. Página, batting at what she thought was a leaf that had fallen in her face, was stung on the finger.
After we had taken her to the first aid place (clinic? location?) and she had calmed down a bit, we began to get some perspective on the situation. All day, Página had been far more worried than the rest of us about bees, and yet she was the one stung. Though my first thought was that our lives are nothing more than a sadistic English teacher’s attempt to explain irony, I have now realized that Página is just really unlucky in retrospectively hilarious ways.
Better you than me, my friend. No one wants to be the Girl Who Cried Bee.