I stepped on a bee the other day.
I suppose it was only a matter of time, really, because I rarely wear shoes when I’m at home. Inside or outside, rain or shine, summer or winter, I’m usually barefoot.
On Sunday afternoon I was outside, barefoot as usual, walking down the side of the yard checking out the gardens when it happened. At first I thought I must have stepped on a sharp stone or something like that, but it didn’t take long to realize that I had been stung by, what I’m now assuming, was a bee. I’ve noticed a lot of bees in the yard this year–they’ve been especially fond of the borage blossoms in the garden. Bees + gardens = a good thing. I couldn’t be too upset by being stung now, could I?
Over the course of the past few days my foot has gone from sore to swollen to itchy and is just now starting to get back to normal. It hasn’t been pleasant, the aftermath of the sting, but it’s not the end of the world. I’m fifty-three years old and this is only the second time I’ve been stung–and the first time as a result of stepping on the bee. Not a bad run for a barefoot girl like me.
Now I suppose I could think about being more sensible and wearing shoes or sandals, or even flip-flops, when I’m outside.
But I won’t.
Even when I’m at work or out-and-about somewhere wearing shoes, in my mind I’m always barefoot. I’m simply a barefoot girl wearing shoes.
There’s something free and carefree about being barefoot, don’t you think? And the older I get the less interested I am in being constrained and reigned in so I’ll take the risk of being stepping on another bee if it means I can continue my barefoot existence. It’s simply a chance I’m willing to take in order to be me: a barefoot girl.