Yesterday evening, while watching the Yankees lose to the Red Sox, it occurred to me that this had been a mild summer for the swarms of mosquitoes that the metropolitan Washington, D. C. area is famous for. It’s not something you notice, I suppose, when you are not getting bitten up, only when you do. I filed this thought away in my “something interesting to blog about” file, but was too tired to do it last night.
But you’re ahead of me, aren’t you.
I’m sitting here on the couch, a little less than 24 hours later, having sprayed Benedryl on half a dozen bites all over my legs. When will the itching stop!?
And for those who think there is a remarkable coincidence between my thoughts about mosquito bites last night, and the eruption of a platoon of bites this morning, think again. Clearly, I had been bitten while cutting the grass yesterday. I probably felt the itching without actually thinking about it consciously. But I thought about it consciously enough to make me think about mosquitoes, and in turn their bite. No coincidence. It makes perfect sense.
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