The Intimate Tick

(Reader discretion advised. This is a story about my undercarriage.)

My top priority in reviving my blog is obviously to bolster my longstanding argument that nature is terrible by relating a chilling tale that has become known as “The Intimate Tick,” or “that weird, overly personal story Carie keeps telling her friends because her life is so boring.”

Several years ago, I was at Bethabara, a historic settlement in Winston-Salem, with my dad’s side of the family. Bethabara looks rural, but it’s actually right in the middle of Winston-Salem suburbia. It was a Sunday. My minister grandfather led us in a devotional time, and then we enjoyed a potluck on the picnic tables. The kids played games and the adults talked. It was a very nice afternoon.

However, when I was getting ready for work on Tuesday morning of that week, I noticed a weird spot in—yes—my bathing suit area. I wasn’t sure what to make of it at first, but by the end of the day, the horrible truth had sunk in.

It was a tick.

I did what any independent, self-reliant, professional woman would do in this situation. I picked up my phone and dialed.

“Mom? I have a question . . . ”

Mom and I agreed that the tick had to be evicted, but unfortunately, I could not do the honors myself. I went to the urgent care, where I had the following totally relaxed conversation with the lady at the front desk:

“Hi, um, I need to see a doctor.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

“Um, I think I have a tick.”

“Okay. Where is the tick located?”

“It’s, um, in my personal region? Um, preferably a female doctor would be good.”

“Okay, please have a seat.”

A few minutes later, a nurse and a PA, both thankfully female, removed the tick with the aid of a local numbing agent and a scalpel. I was very brave (read: embarrassed and apologetic, although the nurse and PA assured me they had seen worse). While they were sharpening the scalpel or whatever, I realized I felt a little vindicated to learn that it really was a tick, whose extraction required minor surgery. Historically, I have been something of a hypochondriac. You know that Jeff Foxworthy joke where his wife is worried that she has testicular cancer? That’s me.

So I was very brave and I didn’t get Lyme disease or anything so all’s well that ends well.  But here’s the point: A tick crawled into my drawers while I was sitting at a suburban picnic table in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. What are the odds? I’ve got friends who go on camping trips for fun and other similar nonsense, and this has never happened to any of them. (Or maybe they have the self-respect to keep this sort of anecdote zipped up.) (Nailed it.) Does the insect community know what I’ve been saying about them in print? Did they send this little squatter as an act of revenge? I can’t say. What I can say is that I’ve been sitting on this story (rim shot) for several years, and I’m finally breaking my silence. In fact, I’m planning a trip back to Bethabara in the spring. My entourage will be made up of medical personnel.

Well, Friends, It’s Been a Minute.

It’s been over three years since I posted, actually. It turns out that between finishing grad school, searching for and blessedly finding a job, moving into one’s first solo apartment and subsequently developing an anxiety disorder, getting engaged, getting married, moving to a new city, reviving the job search, and eventually starting full-time work again, one allows blogging to take a backseat. But with the encouragement of my husband Ben (#blessed), I am finally getting back to writing. (Also, my Netflix addiction is still as bad as ever, so that’s another obstacle right there.) But here we are. Quick recap.

Ben and I got married in 2015, and it’s just the best. He encourages me to pursue my interests, he makes boring errands fun, and he reminds me not to take life too seriously. He got me into Star Trek (we met Jonathan Frakes at the Star Trek Convention in Las Vegas last year—no big deal). We have a two-year-old corgi named Thor. Thor barks at us when we kiss, and we can’t tell if he’s concerned or annoyed that we aren’t focused on him. I have so many nicknames for Thor that Ben genuinely fears he’ll forget his own name (Fuzzy Butt, Baby Nugget, Booger Bear, Goony Bear . . .).

Dog nicknames aside, the craziest thing is that we’ve actually become adults. On one hand, we feel way too young to be married, but on the other hand, being married to each other feels like the most natural thing in the world. Weddings don’t freak us out anymore, and while we aren’t ready for babies of our own, we are overjoyed for friends who are. We finished our first round of grad school a couple years ago and now we’re both back for more degrees. We found a great church to join here in Wilmington and I joined a small music group there. Ben and I have started prioritizing our health more and together we lost almost fifty pounds last year. It turns out that making healthy choices is way easier with a buddy. When I lived by myself between finishing grad school and getting married, it was not uncommon for me to just eat chips and queso for supper, which is not a sustainable diet. I mean, good queso is expensive.

Most importantly, throughout my struggles with depression and anxiety, I’ve experienced firsthand how patient and loving God is, and how he’s always beside me. I’ve had some fantastic counselors, and received supportive reactions from family and friends when I shared what was happening. People care. God cares. Remember that.

Now that I’ve said my piece, I’m going back to folding laundry and watching reruns of The Office. (OK, maybe nothing in my life has changed after all.)