The itchy & scratchy show
A few weeks ago, there was a piece in The New Yorker called "The Itch," by Atul Gawande (who I think is brilliant and amazing and wonderful, but I'm starting to find his style a little predictable. Could you maybe mix it up just a tiny bit? I'll still love you if you don't).
[Warning!! Do NOT click through to page two of that article if you are squeamish, if you're eating or have just eaten, if you are about to go to bed, or if you have any hope of getting romantic in the foreseeable future.]
Anyway, to summarize, the article is all about why we itch, and why we itch just because we think of something itchy, even though we don't feel hot if we think about holding a finger over a flame.
And it is so true; as I read the article, I was itchy, itchy, itchy. And, about a week after I'd read it, when my brother emailed our whole family to (a) thank us for coming to a birthday party at his house that weekend and (b) inform us that his kids brought home a letter noting that there was a lice epidemic at their summer camp, so everyone please check yourselves, you'd better believe I did not stop scratching the entire day (despite not having lice myself, I promise).
Oooooog. That just squicks me out.
Apparently, though, there are people who are professional lice removers; you pay them a few hundred bucks, I think, and they will patiently and expertly comb through your little girl's foot-long, curly locks and rid it of every last nit. I'm curious how one gets into that line of work, but I guess it's a good gig, and I'm fairly certain that my nieces went to her (my brother just shaved my nephew's head and called it a day, but I imagine that that would not fly with the girls).
I thought to write this blog when I discovered a spidery-looking bug on my forearm. I flicked him off mid-bite, despite believing very strongly that doing so makes the effects of the bite worse: big and malformed and itchy as hell. But it's impossible for me to resist the urge to flick when I spot a bug on me; I can't imagine just waiting it out, figuring that that's a better long-term strategy than interrupting the bug's feast.
Are you itchy, too, now? I am barely noticing my forearm now, because by writing "itch" so many times, I've caused it to spread, to my scalp, and my toes, and my left ear. I am a mess.
[Warning!! Do NOT click through to page two of that article if you are squeamish, if you're eating or have just eaten, if you are about to go to bed, or if you have any hope of getting romantic in the foreseeable future.]
Anyway, to summarize, the article is all about why we itch, and why we itch just because we think of something itchy, even though we don't feel hot if we think about holding a finger over a flame.
And it is so true; as I read the article, I was itchy, itchy, itchy. And, about a week after I'd read it, when my brother emailed our whole family to (a) thank us for coming to a birthday party at his house that weekend and (b) inform us that his kids brought home a letter noting that there was a lice epidemic at their summer camp, so everyone please check yourselves, you'd better believe I did not stop scratching the entire day (despite not having lice myself, I promise).
Oooooog. That just squicks me out.
Apparently, though, there are people who are professional lice removers; you pay them a few hundred bucks, I think, and they will patiently and expertly comb through your little girl's foot-long, curly locks and rid it of every last nit. I'm curious how one gets into that line of work, but I guess it's a good gig, and I'm fairly certain that my nieces went to her (my brother just shaved my nephew's head and called it a day, but I imagine that that would not fly with the girls).
I thought to write this blog when I discovered a spidery-looking bug on my forearm. I flicked him off mid-bite, despite believing very strongly that doing so makes the effects of the bite worse: big and malformed and itchy as hell. But it's impossible for me to resist the urge to flick when I spot a bug on me; I can't imagine just waiting it out, figuring that that's a better long-term strategy than interrupting the bug's feast.
Are you itchy, too, now? I am barely noticing my forearm now, because by writing "itch" so many times, I've caused it to spread, to my scalp, and my toes, and my left ear. I am a mess.
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