Thinking Out Loud
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My legs look like a 10 year olds.
Not in the youthful "Gee, your legs are skinny, toned or cellulite-free" way, but in the "I've itched bug bites down to the bone like a stupid kid" kind of way.
Now my legs aren't that great as it is. Oh sure, they get me around, they're strong and they've never balked at walking in 4" heel boots, but they're not the most glamorous gams that ever graced a pair of pantyhose. Yet, in one balmy evening they sunk to levels of appearance that would rival a bare-legged hiker in the Amazon.
Thing is, I know better.
Heck, I've yelled at my own son for doing what I did. "Put on bug spray or you're going to get bit to DEATH!". Followed by "Quit itching those, you'll make it worse and they'll scar!'
I don't know what happened.
Maybe it was the wine that went to my head, sidetracking any sense of common sense to apply a repellent. Maybe I was so engrossed in the great conversation I was having on my deck with a friend, I didn't notice. But, no matter where the meltdown occurred, I was swarmed from knee to ankle by voracious swarms of gnats and didn't realize it until I went to bed.
Then the fun began.
Three weeks of Benadryl and itching, festering, scabbing, itching, festering and re-scabbing from the most intense bites I have ever experienced. This has left me a battleground of ugly scars that I am now trying to hide, to no avail, with a suntan and chunky ankle bracelets.
The marks will fade as time marches on, I know this, even if the phantom itching remains and I solemnly swear to carry a new, more prudent resolve with me forever: Use bug spray, stock up on calamine and never, EVER, open a bottle of good wine outdoors with an old friend on warm summer night.
And I'm gnat kidding.
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Diane Szczepanski |
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0200 Nd: 04-15-2024 d 4 cpr 0
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