I went for a jog Sunday morning, and I went much farther than I normally do. I made it all the way to the Champions subdivision, which is situated on a golf course a few miles from our house. As if it isn’t enough for these people to live in beautiful houses, they get to be called champions too. So if they’re champions, that would make me … but I digress.
One of the houses in the subdision is for sale, and they had a box with fliers out by the curb, so I stopped to look. After glancing at the pictures and seeing the $729,000 price tag, I decided Greg and I weren’t ready to relocate. I jumped back onto the sideway, and that’s when I felt my left ankle start to burn. I looked down and saw a little army of fire ants crawling up my leg. “Spit!” I yelled. OK, so I didn’t yell “spit,” but I did yell something similar and started slapping at my ankle, trying to kill all the ants and still keep my balance as I wobbled on my right foot.
Six bites later, all the ants were dead. The run home wasn’t bad because the endorphins made me feel happy, but the days that have followed haven’t been as good. My ankle swelled to twice its normal size, and I have several blisters. Even Greg gets squeamish when he looks at the wounds.
The amazing thing is that the flier for the house didn’t even advertise the turbo-charged fire ant security system. It’s much more effective than those annoying alarms.