My family is divided. Half of us are mosquito-bite free. The other half is not.
It's the same every summer. The husband and the oldest son will be able to sit outside for hours on end, never attracting so much as a nibble, while the youngest and I will be swarmed mercilessly by armies of dive-bombing bugs. We're clearly mosquito magnets.
The non-magnets don't get it, and never really have.
"Why are you guys scratching so much?" one of them asked the other night, while we were having a late-summer cocktail on the deck. "It's really, really annoying."
"Because!" barked the youngest, slapping his arm. "These mosquitoes are brutal!" The husband and the oldest exchanged a look, and shrugged their shoulders.
"Really?" asked the oldest son. Like his father, of course, he never notices. The two of them, in fact, will be completely oblivious to the buzzing. If the mosquitoes are apparent to them at all, it will only be because the magnets in the family will be swatting and swearing and scratching the welts that will be appearing, well, wherever there happens to be skin.
"I'm going inside," said the youngest.
"I'm coming with you," I said.
We stood in the kitchen and added up the damage. On this night, nine bites for the youngest son, and a good 13 for me.
"You know," said the son, "I have had it with people who can't appreciate what we go through."
"I hear you," I said. "It's just so darned unfair."
"We have to do something," he added.
I looked at him, awaiting elaboration.
We would start a support group, he said. We would issue a call - perhaps by social media - asking the afflicted to step forward, shed their anonymity and join us in linking arms to take up the fight. We would share stories of our battle. We would rate the repellents. We'd post pictures of our scars.
We'd take aim at the non-sympathetic, insensitive non-magnets.
"Good plan," I said. "What should we call it?" The youngest son pondered.
"Hmmm," he said. "How about Biting Back? I think that would pretty well sum up what we're all about."
I gave him a high five.
"Brilliant," I said. "It's about time we bit back."
And so, from our shared misery emerged a plan of attack. We wouldn't just target those nasty old bugs. We'd target the humans who bug us.
We stood in the kitchen and added up the damage. On this night, nine bites for the youngest son, and a good 13 for me.
