My blood is not for the likes of Ixodes scapularis

I hates ticks. I hates them, I do.

I keep picking places to live that are the Grand Central Stations of Ticks. Hell, I even grew up in Missouri, which is no slouch when it comes to ticks (though it doesn't compete with New Jersey, and especially not with northern Minnesota).

One tick-borne illness 20 years ago is more than enough (Lyme Disease, but we caught it early, so no long-term effects), and I have a friend with another, though I don't know what it's called.  

Frankly, if I could push a button and incinerate all the ticks, I'd be sorely tempted.

Two days ago, I spent about 30 minutes pulling weeds. At bedtime, I remembered that I needed a tick check, and we found three of them attached to me - the tiny ones you can barely see.   We removed them (Lyme risk is low - they have to be on you for more than 24 hours before you are at risk for the disease, and these three had been on me for as much as 12 hours, but probably less) and went to bed.

But not to sleep. 

I got maybe 4 hours of sleep that night, because every little itch and tickle sent a jolt of adrenaline down my spine, and I'd feel around for the little blood sucker that I knew wasn't really there, but my imagination kept gleefully whispering in my ear, "What if?" 

By last night, I was so tired that I went to bed early and slept long and heavily, and now it's hard to shake the grogginess.

But I'm having my coffee, and I'm sitting here shielded from nearly head to toe in coveralls. Soon, I will put on my boots, hat, and mosquito netting, leaving only my hands exposed, because my blood will not be consumed by the likes of ticks.

In the spring of 2024,
protected from mosquitos and ticks.