The Quiet Calculus of an Itch

17 Dec, 2025

New York. December. The first snowfall of the season.

I wake up to a loud gush of wind blowing into my apartment’s imperfectly sealed window. I look outside. It’s sunny and everything is white. A contradiction that’s hard to explain to people back home.

I’m meeting friends for lunch. The commute is long enough to reconsider saying yes. A 25-minute walk to the Bedford L, then about 20 minutes on the train.

Winter has a way of reminding you how little control you actually have.

I dress for survival. Thermals. Sweater. Jacket. Scarf. If you count underwear - and I think you should - I’m wearing four layers.

I step out of the elevator. And that’s when it happens.

An itch. In my crotch.

Not urgent. Not painful. Just bad enough that it’s all I can think about. Like a mosquito you can’t see. Do I address it immediately? Do I pretend it isn’t happening?

I hesitate because I’m in public. And I don’t want to be that guy.

A sidebar for women: this is not rare. Biology has handed men a design that involves things hanging, touching, sticking, and occasionally protesting. Men are just badly designed.

Back to the street...

I ignore it. Five minutes into the walk, it’s back. Ignoring it is no longer neutral. It’s a decision.

I try a subtle approach - an almost accidental brush, the kind that could plausibly be interpreted as fixing a coat zipper. Nothing. Four layers is a lot to get through.

Next, hands in pockets. Pants pockets, I discover, are thin and surprisingly effective intermediaries. Temporary relief.

Every passing stranger now feels like a potential witness.

I scan the sidewalk. Fewer people. A quick, efficient intervention with my hands. In and out. No lingering. I don’t know if anyone saw me, but it was worth it for the relief.

After a painful 20-minute subway ride spent negotiating with my legs, I finally reach the restaurant. I go straight to the bathroom. Lock the door. Finally handle it properly. Privately. I’m out in under 30 seconds.

I didn’t need to pee. If anyone noticed, they probably thought I was very fast. Or very healthy. Or maybe slightly confusing.

Most likely, they didn’t notice at all. Which, in moments like this, is the best possible ending.

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