I am not allergic to anything. Really. I have no food allergies, no skin allergies. I am not allergic to poison ivy. Apparently chicken pox and I can live in perfect harmony without anyone getting sick. I am made of steel. Okay, I have the occasional seasonal allergy. But really, only during my pregnancies have they ever been bad enough to medicate. I am made of steel, I tell you! My body, it is not a wonderland, it is a hard and barren landscape, impenetrable by allergens.
I have hives.
I don't know what happened to me, but I have hives. It could be my nerves. It could be my thyroid medication, or it could be my stupid new, fabulously great laundry detergent. (Note that I am nearly sure that's what it is, and even if I had more doubts, I would be sure, because I loved it so that I cannot possibly continue using it.)
The last two days (sorry for the lack of entries, by the way) were utter hell. The hives were worst on my hands (still are) and that made, well, everything painful, itchy and miserable. I also have them on my neck, my forearms, the backs of my thighs, my knees, my ankles and inside the folds of my ear. Hives suck.
I'm not sure I ever gave hives their due respect. I always knew they weren't fun, but I never expected them to be like this. The swelling! If I could ignore the itching, the swelling would still be sending me over the deep end. Stupid, swelling misery.
So, I turned 31 on Monday. Monday. It already seems like a month ago. But whatever. 30 didn't bother me. I didn't mind 30 so much. I mean, 30. Whatever. I'm still young, I'm still tragically unhip, but in a kind of hip way. I still wear torn jeans on the weekends and never wear makeup and I still have a purse in my closet with a dog on it. Okay, I rarely carry it, but I still HAVE it, is my point here.
31. Not so much. Now, I'm not 30. I'm OVER 30, and apparently my body is falling apart. I have these diseases and my memory's shot and now my steel body has a chink. A chink that has allowed hives in. Damn chink.
My jeans no longer have holes. I have that one pair with the cuffs ripped off and fraying, but that's kinda too little too late. My music is on the oldies stations. And yesterday I spent a half hour trying to explain to a college student (our intern) why it wasn't creepy that Pearl Jam had a song about someone committing suicide in school. I had to explain that back in the day, people sang about what was going on in the world, rather than just singing nonstop about sex and fashion and drugs. Okay, we had songs about sex and fashion and drugs, but there was this relevant stuff in there too. Also, explaining that this was pre-Columbine, so everyone had a sort of naivete about guns and school. Anyway, that's sort of a post for another day.
My point is I am freakin' old. Falling apart, listening to oldies, wearing un-torn clothes, thinking about giving that dog purse to Brynna old. Pity me.