The bottom of my right foot itches and it wakes me up.
In my head, I hear my mother telling me that anything having to do with my right foot signifies upcoming good fortune – buena suerte. At this point, all I can do is figure out how to use my left foot to scratch the itch.
It is persistent and so embedded into the arch of my right foot that I can barely soothe the discomfort and the growing need to scratch.
This flurry of activity draws me away from sleep and has my eyes open while it is still dark outside.
I guess this is the good fortune my mother spoke about. I get to live one more day and I get to have an early start.
Meanwhile, I have bent my right leg at the knee and I’m using my big left toe to dig into the bottom of my foot and eliminate this recurring itch.
In the process, I laugh a little because I have managed to tickle myself.
I’m trying to be discreet so as not to wake up Yvonne who is lying next to me, but at this juncture I am like Linda Blair in The Exorcist and my body is literally jumping from the bed as I scratch (now with my hand) the bottom of my foot fervently. It resembles like I’m doing crunches and actually enjoying them.
Relief comes but at the expense of stirring my wife from sleep as we are now both awake and with iPads in hand, reading in the dark.
This is Saturday. We should sleep in a little. It’s been a hard week. We should be tired. Instead, I have an itch and Yvonne complains of insomnia. We have become our grandparents who were always up at dawn and ready to embrace the chores of the day. If God had wanted me up this early, he would have given me a farm with fields to plow and animals to feed.
Instead, I have an itch.
This must be maturity showing its face and taking residence in our lives. I admit it, I am getting old – well, older.
And, unlike the alarm-clock-acting itch, try as I might, I can’t scratch the age away.