i'm just a girl, standing in front of a walgreens, begging for itch relief
Remember when I told you the other day that I had 12 mosquito bites? The tally is now up to...wait for it...NINETEEN. Nineteen giant, swollen welts. I look like I have golf balls trying to pop out of my legs. I'm having a complete allergic reaction and my legs are swollen and itchy and burning. I HAVE NEVER FELT MORE ATTRACTIVE IN MY LIFE.
The summer of 2016 will forever go down in the history books as the summer I had 19 mosquito bites at once and lived to tell about it. This might sound dramatic, yes, but in the throes of massive itching, nothing else matters. However, through my pain and agony, I've managed to identify the 5 stages of the mosquito bite. You are most welcome.
My first piece of advice would be this: do not, under any circumstance, whatsoever, for any reason, go outside. STAY INSIDE.
1. Denial. You'll find yourself at sitting in your friend's backyard, playing with the kids, laughing and joking and talking. You'll swat a mosquito away and think you might wind up with a bite or two. No big deal! We've all been there before. A few days of minor itching is worth it for such a fun summer evening.
2. Anger. Then the morning comes, and every time you count the swollen lumps on your legs, you count more. HOW COULD THEY LET YOU IN THEIR BACKYARD KNOWING FULL WELL MOSQUITOS EXIST AND YOU HAVE A LIFE TO LIVE. You can't even pick up your daughter because your hands are too busy scratching! And then you wake up the morning after that, and you discover your bites had babies. No amount of anti-itch cream is helping. There's only one medicine in existence (Itch X) that has ever given you real relief with bites, and you're out of it. You spend an entire morning driving around town to pharmacies and stores, but no one carries it and you wind up sobbing at an intersection while your teething toddler wails in the backseat. Your husband texts you and asks how you're doing, and you respond with something along the lines of "the word 'b*tch' contains 'itch' for a reason."
3. Bargaining. Your daughter was next to you the entire evening and has not one bite, and you are so thankful. If that meant you wound up with a few extra, fine. That's fine. You tell God you'll take her share of bites so she won't suffer, just please, PLEASE help me find that Itch X? In the meantime, you try every home remedy you've heard about and find yourself rubbing your legs with the inside of a banana peel and witch hazel and taking an extra hot shower. And while you're in the shower, you might as well take a roll call to make sure nothing else has showed up, but...
Wait, what is that? Is that? No. Please no. It is. IT'S ANOTHER BITE. DAMN EVERYTHING TO HELL.
4. Depression. You talk to your husband and recall your recent read of the story of Job and explain why your lives are exactly the same. He was plagued with nightmares (something you never noticed reading it before), and you had them every night last week and woke up screaming. Then God allowed Satan to plague him with boils that kept him up at night. You've been plagued with 19 mosquito bites that keep you up because God forbid a sheet, your pajama pants, or even a molecule of oxygen touch one of the bites and wake the raging monster inside. Every time you move you are struck with the urge to claw yourself to death/set yourself on fire. You have to waddle when you walk because if your legs touch each other or your shorts (and you are wearing your fat shorts because they give you more room to maneuver them away from your welts of hell), you will die. It's 100 degrees outside, and a bead of sweat drips down and tickles one of the bites, and you nearly get in an accident on the way to yet another pharmacy because the itching is so intense it actually hurts.
5. Acceptance. The Walgreens 15 minutes away has 2 boxes of Itch X in stock, according to the internet. You see it on the bottom shelf and weep with relief. You pay for it as fast as you can, telling the cashier you don't need a bag because you're already ripping into the box and smothering yourself in it. You let out a sigh of relief so intense it creates a small earthquake. Maybe life will be ok. Maybe, just maybe we will get through this. You drive home feeling the closest thing to normal you've felt in several days. Then you take a shower, which washes off the medicine, which sends you into an itching frenzy so severe you run downstairs to grab the tube of relief, squeezing it so enthusiastically that the gel shoots across the room, landing on the dining room table.
A few hours later, your husband comes home from work, and he says to you, "Oh yeah, I was just at the Meijer basically across the street, and they had a huge stock of Itch X. Funny that neither of us thought to check there before."