Scratching That Itch.

Skeeter Syndrome is tearing me up.  I’ve always been prone to bug bites. Some people are. But this year is a whole other ballgame. Not only am I getting bitten, even with DEET, which makes me cringe, but I’m having an allergic reaction that causes redness, swelling, blistering and ITCHING.

The itching. It feels soooooooooo good to scratch the itch. You know what it’s like to scratch an itch. It’s deeply satisfying. It’s also deeply addictive and, like all good addictions, it leads to making the whole situation worse. The more I scratch, the worse it itches. Those red and inflamed bug bites scream for more.

I know all the right things, the antihistamines and ointments, and the breathing. Yep, breathing right through it and getting on the other side. All things pass. Oddly, even itching. But none of that feels as good as scratching.

And then there’s my husband. The mosquitoes don’t love him the way they love me. I’m sweeter? I’m sweatier? I produce more carbon dioxide? I don’t know, but for whatever reason, they really do prefer me. Of course, when he does get bitten he does all of the right things. So, every time he sees me clawing my skin he screams out, “Don’t scratch!”, dives for the itch cream and tosses it to me.

Yes, he’s a dear and he is looking out for me, but honestly, I really just want to be left alone to scratch the itch. My itching triggers his lecture on the evils of scratching and the power of our mind to change focus. In my distressed state, his care feels like criticism and that just leads to another kind of itch that longs to be scratched.

He is standing in the way of my “pleasure” and that summons the little woman in my head. There she stands with her hands on her hips and her head just bobbing from side to side, “I don’t know who he thinks he is. He’s not a doctor. He doesn’t itch like that. It’s my arm I’m tearing up, not his.” Her ranting satisfies like a good scratch. There’s not much in this world as delicious as righteous indignation.

But it doesn’t stop. Just like the itching, I feel better for the briefest moment, but my skin is puffed up and my ego is puffed up and I’m a miserable, miserable mess.

Then I breathe. And that doesn’t make it better, but I do it again and again. Eventually the little woman begins to calm down and goes back to whatever she was doing. Hubby, who has smartly walked away for a moment, returns with the backgammon set challenging me to a game of Acey Deucey. The itch lost this round. But it will return and I know all the right things to do. But, man, I love to scratch.