January 11, 2008
Leah calls them her admirers. They swarm us everywhere and mostly in groups. They are troublesome. They are flies. But, not normal flies. They may look like normal flies, but they're not. In Australia, there is something wrong with their tiny brains.
Often, it starts when a fly buzzes toward me quickly and lands on my lip or cheek or inside my ear or up a nostril or on an eyelash, or in some other delicate place. I swat at it. But, unlike flies with which I've previously had experience, when I wave it away, it adeptly flies over my hand and lands exactly where it was moments before. And, it's not alone. There are several in a group and slowly my swatting crescendos. Before I realize it, I'm flailing my arms in a fury, which can only end when I accidentally smack myself or slap my sunglasses askew. And, then the flies resettle to their decided place, tickling me with small movements. I curse and fume.
But not Leah, who must have a higher tolerance for these sorts of things. She manages to wave at the pests occasionally until they settle somewhere tolerable, and then ignores them.
It is a skill that I wish I could develop and one which in Leah I admire.
