You KNEW there was more to the spider-bitten butt story than a simple paean to blogging, didn't you? Couldn't you just FEEL it? If you couldn't, dear reader, I'm disappointed in your Sueblog intuition skillz.
Yes. So. I got this spot on my butt. No big deal, everyone gets them, right? Wrong. This thing kept getting bigger and uglier and oh, the horror, the horror.
When I emailed Angela, my sister in all things bitey, it was about the size of a quarter. A big quarter. A big, ugly, red quarter. Which is really rather large for something you sit on all day, n'est pas?
She said her bite (that I forgot she had nicknamed Silas - oh, I love that woman) had gone away on its own.
Part of my issue with my own particular assbiteification was that I couldn't see it really well. It was on a part of my butt that sort of defied examination, being right back there and right down there, so if I twisted about in a yoga pretzel while looking in the mirror, I could get kind of a look but not the close exam I needed to see if I was to observe fang marks.
(Angela claimed you could not see fang marks, at which point I knew I had to make sure of that fact.)
One of the main hazards of being a single woman, besides having an alarming amount of space for lotions in the bathroom cabinet, is that you have no one to say "Hey, come look at this ugly thing on my butt for me!" to. Dang. I knew I was missing out on something.
So in a stroke of Suebobian genius, I decided that I could photograph my butt at high resolution and examine the photo at 300 percent to see the extent of the frightfest.
This involved learning to use the timer feature on my camera, finding an appropriate spot, and taking about 40 photos that looked like something from the "casual encounters" section of Craigslist. Or a cellulite cream ad, more likely.
Yes, people of the Internet, this is how a lonely old spinster spends her evenings - photographing spider bites on her butt. You can stop envying my swinging single lifestyle now. The Love Boat...exciting and new...
I finally got a good enough shot to reassure me that I did not need to make a trip to the emergency room. Because you know if I did, the same place that usually has a staff that looks like a bunch of laid-off carnival workers would turn out to have the doctors from Gery's Anatomy on duty, just to all look at my nasty butt sore.
And you know, internets, YOU KNOW it took all my strength not to post it on my blog. I finally decided not to, because, as you can tell, I am trying to cultivate an aura of romance and mystery. How's that working?