What Kevin saw:
Stepping around the corner of the shed, he observed me bend in half, and then straighten up. I flipped my head this way and that, tossing my hair all over. I swatted at my head, while continuing my odd gyrations.
“Baby! Are you OK?”
I ignored him and continued twisting my body. I arched my back and then swung my torso forward. My hands repeatedly picked through my hair in a rapid fashion. I began a high-stepping routine, and then hopped over a small fence in an attempt to make my way over to him, swatting and picking at my hair the entire time.
“Baby! What is it!? Is it bees? Do you have bees in your hair!?”
I didn’t respond, but ran across the yard to get his assistance while continually slapping at my head and shaking my hair all around.
What Ina experienced:
I’d noticed that there were some large weeds growing in the garden patch near the dogwood tree. I began pulling a few of them out, and as I was bent over, I noticed some rather large ones directly under the tree. I stayed hunched in half and began pulling out more. I went to stand up and realized I was under the lowest branches of the tree and standing straight wasn’t possible. I grabbed the nearest low branch to aid me in moving out from under it and bumped my head on something. This was when I realized where I was.
Oh, shit! I just hit my head on that wren house!
Yes. I had hit my head on a low hanging birdhouse. A shudder quickly ran through my body and I tried to get away. I was still struggling with the lower branches of the dogwood, so my paranoid and delusional imagination had a chance to work on me.
A birdhouse! What if I have a dead baby bird in my hair?
My three biggest fears just manifested in my mind: a bird, a baby bird and a dead bird. All were touching me in the form of one imaginary creature in my hair.
I managed to get out from under the tree and stand up. I ran my hands through my hair and could have sworn I felt something in it. I began shaking my head and continued to pick at my hair rapidly. I bent over to shake my hair out as another shudder wracked my body. I straightened out rapidly while the heebie-jeebies worked their magic on me. I began twisting my body from side to side and continued slapping and picking at my scalp. I heard Kevin yelling to me. I knew I had to get over to him so he could check my hair for dead baby birds. He’d save me! I gyrated and hopped over a low fence, running across the yard to My Hero.
The rest of the story:
Kevin ran across the yard to meet me, still screaming out questions about bees in my hair. I couldn’t answer him. All I could do was let out a few weak squeaks while undulating my body and flipping my hair all over. I reached the safety of his arms, panting, and managed to ask him to inspect my hair. Once he reassured me that there was nothing but hair on top of my head, I was able to tell him what happened.
He erupted in gales of laughter, and after the briefest of interludes, I was able to follow suit. I know I’m ridiculous at times. I know that reading so much Stephen King has enabled my imagination in ways that most people don’t experience.
His only wish was that he had known what was going on so he could have just stood there and enjoyed the show without the initial fear of me being attacked by bees. I can’t say that I blame him.
I actually wish he’d had the video camera ready, set to record.