Ants in my pants.

by Katie on August 11, 2010

Literally, y’all.

This may have been my worst irrigating experience yet. The only reason I’m telling this story is because Brandon insisted upon it.

When he first told me to “blog it” (because that’s a new verb around here), I told him I wasn’t sure I wanted the Internet to know I was once half naked on the side of the road. But he was persistent. Which means he apparently thinks some of you will delight in my misery and embarrassment.

Anyway, I was out changing water on our cotton last week, because that’s basically what the latter part of my summer has consisted of, and I had to load all 30 irrigation pipes into the truck. No big deal. Just another day on the farm.

Or so I thought…

As I was dumping my second load over the tailgate, I started to get a burning sensation all over my backside. Which was slightly odd. Then, all of a sudden, I was on fire.

It felt like I was being eaten alive by mini fireballs.

So there I was, trying to hide behind the door, wiggling around, hitting the back pockets of my denim shorts, and wondering what in the world I was going to do. Because, of course, this didn’t happen on some remote field, or one with a tree or bush nearby. I was out in the wide open, right along a busy road. Like, the one I mentioned before where we receive no less than two honks and/or waves every time we change water.

Finally, I determined I had to bite the bullet. The pants had to come off.

I did the only thing I could think of that would give me some sort of privacy, and drove to the end of the field, where at least I wasn’t on the shoulder of the main road.

I’m pretty sure the pants were in the floorboard before I hit the brakes, and I was leaping out of the truck in my underpants before the truck was fully in park.

You seriously have no idea the kind of burning and stinging I was experiencing. And I hope you never do.

So the whole time I’m dancing around behind our cotton plants, I’m also praying our super-nice, conservative, model Christian neighbor farmer doesn’t decide to come check his field, which borders ours. I could only imagine what sort of eminent heart issues might occur if he did. My guess is we would no longer enjoy lingering small talk on the ditch bank, though.

Eventually, the pain subsided some. Enough to where I no longer wanted to risk attracting unwanted traffic in my current attire.

Afterward, I was trying to figure out how in the world the ants actually got in my pants. I’m still stumped. If they had been on the pipes, my guess is they would have ended up inside my shirt before my pants. I did have to bend over to pick up the pipes, but I definitely did not let my rear touch the dirt when I did so. Jumping ants? It’s my only theory.

And we won’t talk about the aftermath.


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