Something bit me the other day. On the inside of my arm.
I felt a little pinch as I was walking up 16th street. It's not like there's dense foliage, so I had to imagine it was a random flying insect. But there's a little trail of spots, and then one larger one. So maybe a spider?
I've ruled out Botfly, in any case. And Guinea Worm. Something far more prosaic seems likely.
But what concerns me is the itch.
This bite was several days ago. And it didn't start itching till this morning. And now it really itches.
So I'm adding Benadryl cream to my stupid little clear plastic bag of three-ounces one can take on the plane. Those three ounce limits sure make me feel safe.
But what this brings me to is not fear of flying (she says, with a brownie on one plate, and bacon on another) but a newly acquired fear of itching.
Because I don't know if you read the New Yorker, but one of the recent issues contains one of the most horrifying things I've ever read. Have any of you read this article on itching?
If not, let me just say this. It's fascinating. It's about itching, and how doctors haven't quite figured out how itching works, neurologically speaking.
I recommend it, but with reservations. Because also? It will make you do a squeamy little ooogy twitchy dance. When you get to this one particular part.
The part where this woman, who had shingles on her head, which killed a lot of the surface nerves, scratches too much. Because, while her doctors think she shouldn't be so itchy, she itches. And she scratches. She tries to stop herself, but at night she scratches.
So much that one night, she scratches clear through her skull.
To her brain.
Seriously. She wakes up in the morning with a weird fluid on her hands. And goes to her doctor. Who calls an ambulance immediately.
Honest to god. Scratched through to her brain.
If that doesn't make you do a squeamy little ooogy twitchy dance, I don't know what will.
And now, I'm off to Chicago. Great weekend, all!