Just to be clear, I don’t have the measles, small pox, chicken pox, or even a bad case of acne.
What I have are mosquito bites.
A lot of them.
Enough of them so that I expect to see a great reduction when I step on the scale.
Enough of them so that the Hoxworth Blood Center has called to tell me I’ve exceeded my donation level for the year.
Enough so that this year’s annual vampire ball is being moved out of southern Ohio.
Enough so that there isn’t enough hydrocortisone on the planet to handle them all.
Enough so that I look like I have the measles.
I did not invite the mosquitoes over for a festive meal. I didn’t invite them for a small nosh. I didn’t even invite them for a meal-free get together.
There was no inviting whatsoever.
Mosquitoes are not big on etiquette.
Or on spelling, since you can spell the plural mosquitos or mosquitoes and no one seems to care.
They are, however, big on helping themselves to whatever is in the ‘frig (and by “’frig” I mean my veins).
Dad was not sympathetic; Dad repels mosquitoes. Dad is a virtual mosquito umbrella. He says it’s because he was wearing long pants that he wasn’t bitten, but I was bitten through my clothing. Sleeves were not a deterrent. In fact, mosquitoes seem to have an affinity for red shirts. Or at least the shoulders underneath red shirts.
Excuse me while I go slather on a gallon or two of hydrocortisone.