3 weeks after the fact, I’m finally going to tell you about why I was naked on Instagram with glop on my legs.
I had a itch. Quite a big itch as it happens.
The kind of long winter itch that comes from months of being inside a house that’s so dry if I pet the cat and then touch a light switch I can create my own personal lightning.
I did what we all do. I tried my fingernails first to get rid of the itch. Those would work. Hmm. Nope, that’s not working. So I took a tiny little bite out of a couple of fingernails to create a sharp edge (as one does) and tried scratching again.
Well that just made it worse. Sort of woke the itch up and, dare I say, made it volatile.
I knew I wanted to avoid the next step, the step we all take, at all costs because it never EVER ends well. So I sat there and tried to ignore the fact that my legs felt like I was wearing pajama bottoms made of 20% cotton and 1780% asbestos.
Nope. No dice. I had to take the next step.
I walked into the bathroom, opened the cabinet where I keep the hydrocortisone cream, pushed it aside, and grabbed my boar bristle hairbrush.
OH! You’ve done that too? So you know where this is going.
Gently, I told myself. Just gently scrape along your legs the absolute minimum you need to to relieve the itch. Do NOT scrape hard no matter how good it feels.
I can’t remember what happened after my eyes rolled into the back of my head but I have a faint memory of waking in a puddle of drool and loose hair.
I peeked at my legs and saw the destruction. Hundreds of straight, red scratch marks from my knees to mid-thigh. It wasn’t as bad as I thought.
But that’s because the droplets of blood hadn’t started to rise yet.
Within another few minutes my legs looked like a Kardashian vampire facial.
Luckily the itch disappeared for, I’m going to say, at least 3 minutes. And then they started to itch again.
To recap, I am now in the bathroom with asbestos pajamas around my ankles, my thighs covered in scratch marks, blood and old hair.
So I immediately took a profile pic for Match.com.
I pulled my pants up, ran to the freezer and took out a couple of bananas that were living in there.
Into the microwave for a few seconds they went so I could peel them, which I could NOT do fast enough. I then proceeded to drop my pants again, sit down on the kitchen floor and smear my legs with banana peels.
And then I took a picture and posted it to Instagram. Back to that in a moment.
If you remember, a while ago I posted about how banana peels can be used to relieve itch. I had never actually tried it before, but now seemed like a good opportunity to test that theory along with my own personal theory that there is no such thing as a bad Match.com photo as long as you list “Watching endless hours of all the sports while stirring a pot of chili” as one of your “likes”. It doesn’t even need to be near the top of the list.
The banana peels provided instant relief, but I was smart enough to know that was just because they were still pretty cold from the freezer. Only once they warmed up from the intense fiery heat of my bleeding thighs, my legs still didn’t itch. AT all.
About this time I checked my Instagram account to see how many likes the banana peel photo had because that is also something I could probably parlay into an irresistible Match.com profile. “Wears rotten fruit, pretends to like watching sports, and gets more than 14 likes per photo on Instagram on a regular basis.”
I posted the photo with the caption “This is not a story I’m going to tell on Instagram, so don’t even ask”.
Enter, Instagram user “Liza” who commented “But you’re going to show it for attention?”
Well yes. It’s Instagram. That’s why I put the photo there and didn’t just memorize it for later reference in my brain. I responded to Liza with a simple “You’re fun.” Liza is no longer on Instagram. I checked.
I think that’s for the best because if she was taken aback by a photo of banana peels on my legs God help her if she ever stumbled across Niki Minaj. Maybe she did. Maybe that’s what Liza left Instagram.
Believe it or not, I understand Liza; empathize with her. I’ve been in those situations where you’re so desperately disturbed by something someone has posted you almost can’t help yourself from saying something.
Those instances usually involve somewhat more severe posts like blatant mysogony or racism. Maybe someone who doesn’t like potato chips. That sort of thing.
So I understood Liza probably had an immediate, visceral reaction to my banana legs and just couldn’t help herself. She just couldn’t stay quiet.
She had to scratch that itch.
Have a good remainder of your weekend!