Forking Itch

It started with a little tickle right along the edge of my left shoulder blade. I thought there might be a bug on my shirt so I grabbed the bottom and fluffed it out a few times to knock it off. It was then that I realized that that tickle was on my skin rather than on my shirt. The quick puffs of air only intensified the sensation. The tickle grew to a slight itch. I wrapped my arm across my back as far as it would go and even pushed up on my elbow with my other hand, but I still could not reach the source of my discomfort. Because I could not reach the spot, my brain decides to put an urgent stamp on the situation.

I desperately find the nearest door jamb and rub up and down like a bear on a tree in an attempt to ease the itch. The friction from this action created a patch of burning skin that circled the original annoyance. Now I was itching and burning. A dull surface was not helping the situation. I needed something sharp. I point my squirmy, dancing discomfort toward the kitchen, open the silverware drawer and take out a steak knife. That’s when the inner dumbass alert signals. “Don’t do it, Molly. That’s too sharp. You know it is. Slicing off a ribbon of skin will not make it stop itching.” I had a vision of a myself peeling a strip of my back skin from my shirt only to discover that it still itched, so I anchor the strip on the counter between two fingers and scratch it with my finger nail and I am temporarily distracted enough to forget about my itch. You’re right, dumbass alert. You often are.



Which one of these is the cootie fork??



The tickling on my back snaps me back into reality and I reach for a fork. It reached perfectly and with the right angle and pressure applies just the right amount of delicious, scraping relief. Goose bumps rise along my arms and I am in sheer ecstasy. I think I might have actually moaned a little. I absent mindedly drop the fork back in the drawer. Queue the dumbass alert, “You did not just do that.” I look down to see a tangle of forks and I have no idea which one it is. I don’t know what is on my back that itches with such urgency. It could be a patch of dry skin or an oozing group of poison ivy blisters. Either way it’s not really something I want to put in my mouth. I grab all the forks and throw them in the sink and reach for the dish soap. “That’s what you get, idiot.” (The dumbass alert always gets in the last word.)