A few years back, under the influence of marijuana, I had a thought I had never thought before: What is an itch? Not the easily explained kind caused by brushing against a stick or something, but the small, rather non-noteworthy ones that you bat away with a scratch of your index finger. I pictured teeny tiny skin flakes rubbing up against each other just so as to create that little phantom itch.
My natural reflex was to grab the small internet machine in my pocket and Google it, but I thought, maybe just this one thing can — and should — remain a mystery. Something for just me and my brain. That it would only be until I was on my deathbed, that I would finally give in to science and reason and accept an explanation. And that for now, it would be my thought to think and my question to bring up at parties. (No Googling allowed… because, really, what has killed good conversation more than Google?)
I’m a huge Bill Bryson fan (read A Short History of Nearly Everything, you will be funnier and smarter for it!) and was tickled when my mom checked out his latest book, The Body: A Guide for Occupants, out of the library for me. The first chapter was about skin! So cool! So fun! I always wanted to know more about our largest organ. But unlike you, who has the luxury of foreshadowing on your side, nary an alarm bell went off. Nothing was telling me that I was about to get the answer to my favorite question.
I didn’t even see it coming. I read straight on through until I was getting the answer I never wanted.
The good news is, in an act of self preservation (and possibly due to the fact that I was definitely drinking red wine while reading the book), I couldn’t for the life of me tell you the answer. So it remains my little secret.
Please don’t tell me the answer.