I thought I’d outgrown the horrendous reactions to mosquitoes that I had as a child. No. It just turns out that mosquitoes in the North do not have effects that are as terrible on me. Yesterday my family and I went to visit Old Salem, which is kind of like a smaller, Moravian Williamsburg, and the first thing that happened was that I was attacked by mosquitoes. Twenty minutes after arriving, I found myself scratching the backs of my hands. Then my forearms. Then the backs of my legs. We got inside for a museum tour, and I was given a Claritin and some first aid creme that we rubbed everywhere that itched.
Fifteen minutes later, it felt like my forearms were on fire. Twenty minutes after that, the itching had faded by a lot, but the swelling had started. The knuckles at the base of my middle and ring fingers on my right hand were barely distinguishable.
I count five bites total: one on the back of my right hand, one on my left forearm, one on my left thigh, and two on the back of my right knee. The result today, among other things is that I can hardly do anything with my hands because moving my left wrist or the fingers on my right hand hurts. Mosquito bites feel like they’ve aged my hands twenty years.
The South is not winning points with me at the moment.
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