There I was, sitting quietly on our sofa, taking a brief rest after some at-home-therapy exercises. Then peripheral vision flashed an alarm: a bug had just skittered on to my chest.
Ack! Frantic brushing and whacking with right hand ensued. My brain registered the attacking creature as gray, fuzzy and about the diameter of a pencil eraser. Also contributing to my panic—and shrieks—was the critter’s persistence. Every time I got it brushed off, it managed to get back on me.
I desperately needed a functioning left arm and hand! Hubby’s calm help finally got me toned down a bit. A more focused look turned my bug aversion to embarrassment.
The athletic and determined “bug” was a small ball of gray thread tangled in a thin elastic thread, hence the “bug’s” ability to bounce back on to me. I took scissors and separated myself from the elastic and the “bug.”
I didn’t pursue the source of the elastic. But I suspect the culprit was frayed elastic on underwear that wouldn’t pass the mother test of “You can’t wear that! What if you were in a wreck and had to go to the emergency room?”
Well, I didn’t have to go to the emergency room. My only potential need for the ER would have been treatment for maniacal laughter.