Skin Things

My arms are red. And spotty. And they itch. Which is just FAN-tastic because I have an oh-so-slight phobia of skin things. By which I mean that if I have so much as a mosquito bite, I promptly hyperventilate and try to drown myself in my sink. Except that as much as I hate having skin things, I'm also fascinated by them. So I watch my arm warily. I poke at the spots with my nails. I scratch and glare and basically bother it continuously, and in the end, I make it twenty times worse than it would have been if I had just LEFT IT THE HELL ALONE.

The last time I spontaneously got a skin thing, it was because I had managed to freak myself out so much over the mere POSSIBILITY that I might get a rash that I gave myself a stress rash. Lovely. And this time? I think I'm allergic to the wedding. Because we spent all morning surrounded by lace and tulle, looking for ring bearer pillows and cake serving sets and the redness and spottiness and itchiness grew steadily worse. I told McMoose about my suspicions and he very unsympathetically informed me that if that were the case, I'd really be hating life in a week, when the wedding will actually be taking place. Thank you, McMoose. Your gift for stating the obvious remains as strong as always.