Humbled By a Fly

Last weekend, as my husband and I worked to bury our 19-year-old cat, I was attacked—not by a human fiend, but by a tiny black fly.  I know I’m not the only one who hates black flies or midges, as some call them (I have no clue what their official name is).  Look around for people wearing large purple-red welts, and you’ll know you’ve found fly victims.  They’re the people who are sensitive to the nastiness black flies distribute (poison in their saliva?).

The ghoulish thing about black flies is that they’re so small that you barely notice when they do their dirty work.  My husband saw me swatting at something as I dug, or I wouldn’t have a clue when I was skewered.  Now the hard-centered red bulge under my eye looks enough like the site of a bruise to make people who don’t know us give my husband dirty looks.  “You brute!” they say with their eyes.  They try to pretend they aren’t staring at me, so I know I make them uncomfortable.

I wish I knew what makes certain people tastier to black flies.  I’d reverse it.  I’m not tasty to mosquitoes.  They like my sweet-tempered husband far better.  But the flies leave him alone.

Maybe we fly victims aren’t tasty.  Maybe we’re being punished for some black fly transgression. Maybe that’s the reason they go for the face.  Since I don’t spray bug killer, I can’t imagine what my crime might have been.  The smell of my hair mousse?  The lingering fragrance of my bath oil?  Do black flies prefer manly sweat?

The only good thing I have to say about having been “disfigured” by a fly is that I have been reminded to be humble.  Who can be egotistical with a giant red welt on her face?