A Face Full

My face itches.

I don’t know how many things you read that start with that statement, but there it is.

Some time back, I wrote a post about our new house, and I mentioned very briefly about how the yard was somewhat overgrown.  That may have been an understatement.  Apparently the previous owners of the place were trying to reestablish some natural wildlife habitat or something, although I have no idea what sort of wildlife could inhabit thirty foot vines and inch-long, flesh ripping thorns.  Bigfoot, maybe.  You know, since he has all that thick fur.

Anyway, we’ve been working to clear away the jungle that is our yard.  It’s hard, hot, dirty work.  But we are just doing some every chance we get.  Hopefully it will all be done some time before my grandchildren inherit the place. (No bitterness, really.)

I tend to be somewhat accident prone, so I was pleased that at the close of business yesterday I was still unharmed.  A few scratches, but nothing to sweat over.

Then I brushed my teeth.

As I was watching myself brush my teeth in the mirror (why do we do that?), I noticed an odd little puffy place under my left eye.  I thought maybe it was a mosquito bite or something.  It wasn’t.

I have poison ivy on my face. On my FACE! ON MY FACE!

It has slowly spread all day long, first all around my eye, then down my cheek onto my jaw, on the side of my nose, up over my eyebrow, and even a little in my left ear.  Here’s a little fun fact for you about poison ivy, in case you didn’t know.  It itches.  A lot.

Some might think having poison ivy on the south end may be worse, but at this point I’m not so sure.  Right now, my whole life is revolving around the fact that my faces itches.  Seriously, I’m only writing this post to distract my hands from digging my face.  Oh! And I just LOVE when people tell me, “The worst thing you can do is scratch it!” Really? I mean, this seems to me about the same as standing and watching something burst into flames and then saying, “The worst thing you can do is put some water on that.”

I tried to explain to my husband the science behind my itchy face. You see, when a foreign substance gets on your body (for instance, your face), your body produces a chemical known as a histamine.  A histamine is a hateful little chemical that sends a signal to your brain that says, “Your face itches!” This triggers a response from you to scratch your face.  The histamines hope that, by scratching, you can remove the foreign substance from your body.

My husband gave me a very sour look and made a rude remark.  Obviously, you can’t discuss science with lay people.

So anyway, here I am, with my itchy face, trying not to think about my itchy face.  Or that it itches.  My face, I mean.  You know, because it’s itchy.

The only solution so far has been to take a Benadryl.  Even now, as I’m typing, my brain is shutting down.  If the zombie apocalypse happens, I guarantee Benadryl will be behind it.  I don’t know if it stops the itching, or if it is just that unconscious people can’t scratch.

Well, I guess I should quit before I fall right over on the keyboard.  Plus, I think I can hear those histamines again.

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