(Instead of Alabama Shakes? No? Might be a bit of a stretch.)
Over the last few days, my family and I were in Huntsville and then Birmingham, AL for a friend’s wedding. The wedding was beautiful, the trip was fun, and mosquitoes have really taken a liking to me.
Actually, that’s an understatement. The mosquitoes made breakfast, lunch, and dinner out of me, with a few snacks in between and now my skin is a fresh quilted mess of bites. Eff. That.
Mosquitoes have always made me their target over other members of my family, and even on this trip Chris escaped with far fewer bites with significantly less weltishness. The marks on his skin were gone within a few hours, but mine remained raised landmines of itchiness. (Birdy escaped with nary a mark on her skin. I suspect the power of voodoo.)
“How many did you get?”
“Walking to the car just now? Two more bites.”
(The walk was from the entrance of the restaurant to the car door.)
It became a sport, avoiding the bugs. Walking from any building back to the car was a flurried attempt to secure Birdy in her car seat and then get into the passenger seat of our rental car.
“Hurry! Get in the car seat! Shut the door!” and I’d slide over the hood of the car like Luke Duke.
Bugs have always wanted to devour me whole, and I can’t figure out why. Is it because I shower often? Is it the soap I use? Can they smell fear? Is it because my blood is potentially sweeter than that of my counterparts? Are they attracted to the smell of synthetic insulin? Are people with diabetes particularly attractive to bitey bugs?
Whatever the case, I have laundry to wash, a suitcase to unpack, and a million bug bites to itch incessantly.