I’m home again, yay! Don’t worry, I learned a lot on this trip. For example, I now know that I need to be way more careful when promising the young hotel desk clerk that I’m “willing to do whatever it takes.”
But now I have bites all over my legs and butt from drinking all night.
I’ve done it again, haven’t I? Let me back up.
Our last night in town, we got together with Husband’s old friend Trace, whom we basically never see because he lives far away and has a wife and a kid and grown-up shit like that. But we were temporarily in the same zip code, which meant that he came by our hotel and we sat on the patio bar drinking until they literally kicked us out.
Actually, we stayed a while after they tried to kick us out, because Trace suddenly developed a burning fascination with the customs and holidays in our waiter’s native city of Fuckificanremember. I’d had, like, all the martinis at that point. But he asked a lot of questions, buying me time to finish one more and snag some extra olives for the road, which was very cool of him.
I am a person who, as you can tell by looking at me, is not exactly loaded with iron-rich blood. I should, by rights, be a mosquito’s least favorite snack. Yet somehow, I am the person who gets bitten even when nobody else does. I get mosquito bites in winter, ffs. (Don’t tell me it’s not possible; I will send you photographs and you will need eyeball bleach.) I get bites through thick clothing, even boots, and while wearing repellent. Husband never has to worry about getting bit if he’s with me, because they will go around him to get to me.
But I wanted to watch the sun set while I sipped my filthy martinis (yes, I’m a dirty, dirty girl) and so we sat outside. I put myself in the corner and two strapping men opposite me, to block me from mosquito-vision. And they got me anyway.
Not my arms, neck, or back, all of which were bared by my top. No, my legs – which were wrapped in denim and under the table, behind two big guys. (They were supposed to be my human shield!)
The men didn’t get bitten, and I did, right through the one article of clothing (short of a space suit) that supposedly protects from bug bites.*
How much, I ask, do the mosquitoes hate me? To fly over, under, or around the two men directly in their path, under the table, and have at me unobserved like that. And why me, in particular? Husband tried to joke that it’s because I’m so sweet, but he loves me and even he couldn’t say that with a straight face.
Also, this happened.
ME: It was nice to see Trace last night. He’s fun.
HIM: Yeah. It would have been fun if I’d gotten to talk, but your way was good too.
ME: I’m sorry.
HIM: It’s okay.
ME: But you know I talk a lot. I do try to not monopolize the conversation, but…
HIM: Yeah, and it’s fine. You just usually let me finish a story. Or a sentence.
ME: I’m sorry. I really don’t mean to interrupt. It’s just that I think of things I want to say and I get really excited.
This is why we work: easily my most annoying trait, and he thinks it’s kinda cute.
Also, he rarely tries to talk, which inspires me to let him when he does make the effort.
* I’ve actually been told that it’s impossible for mosquitoes to bite through denim or thick layers, and I wonder why these people think I would make up such a story – that’s a lame thing to lie about, you know?