Allergies suck. They also wheeze, and cough, and sneeze. And
I got ‘em.
I’ve had allergies as long as I can remember. When I was in
elementary school I remember a doctor telling my mom that I was allergic to
wool, down, dust, and pollen. I wasn’t a boy-in-the-bubble type case, but it
was significant enough that the doc recommended my mother vacuuming the house
every day. Tell that to any stay-at-home mom with two kids and note their
reaction. Yeah, right. Like that’s going to happen.
So I learned to cope. It was never that big of a deal.
Sure—come springtime I’d have to stock up on Sudafed and wear a mask to cut
grass (which I refused to do). But for the most part, I’ve just lived with
stopped up sinuses and the semi-regular sneezing fit when the ragweed gets just
right.
Soon after college, I found myself in Chicago
visiting a friend. Another mutual friend of ours was having a birthday party
and we decided to drop by for a bit. I had always looked up to this particular
upperclassman and was looking forward to the visit. Kendall was one of those
really smart and wickedly funny guys I always aspired to be, yet never quite
achieved. The kind of guy who in the late 80s was still listening to Springsteen and Neil Young on vinyl
while I was buying Whitesnake and Queensryche cassettes.
The party at Kendall’s uber-cool downtown Chicago loft was
well underway when we arrived. The place was crawling with self-important,
highly educated urbanites. These were all of Kendall’s University of Chicago grad-school buddies who talked about Film (not movies) as an institution and
Kirkegaard like they hung out with him. Pretention doesn’t come close to
describing the scene…and I wanted to be JUST LIKE THEM! One problem: I played
Christian music. For a living. In this crowd, I could never be cool, would
never have an insightful story to tell. No, I was the guy that
makes everyone ask “Who invited him?”
My palms could’ve lubricated a Hummer every time I was asked, “So, what
do you do?” Not from embarrassment, but rather I knew what the reaction would be. Stunned silence every time I answered, as if I had said I was from
Mars. Actually, I probably would have been given more respect and attention had I actually been a little green Martian.
I just wanted to skulk in a corner in anonymity until we left. Just stand still, Randy, and don't draw any attention to yourself. Then it started. The sneezing. And OH HOW I SNEEZED! And
sneezed. Over and over and over. What in the world could I be so allergic to?
There’s no down or wool or dust to speak of…what could it…wait. Is that a cat?
Do you think I might be allergic to cats? I’ve never noticed that before.
Wh-wh-whAAH-CHOO!!
I must have sneezed (no exaggeration) thirty times in 20
minutes. There was snot all over me, my eyes were running like faucets, and I looked like I was either dying or had been smoking meth (which hadn’t been
invented yet). Utter humiliation. Needless to say, I left the party 30 minutes
after arriving. Good to see you Kendall.
That was the day I learned that I was allergic to cats. Since then I've learned that I’m not allergic to ALL cats, though. I’ve even found one or two whose company I've actually enjoyed (Nadia, you know who you are). However, there is one furry
critter named Henry that makes up for all those that don’t affect me. And I spent three hours with him on
Saturday.
My buddy Greg (who was my best man) married my cousin Amy.
Great people. Love them. Their daughter Kate makes me want to have kids. Their
cat Henry, however, makes me question God’s judgment when he created the feline
species. Because of Henry, it’s impossible for me to see them without
sneezing…and I don’t mean polite little micro-sneezes. I’m talking about
violent, multiple neck-snapping nasal eruptions. It’s as if he has some sort of
allergen magnification force field around him against which I’m completely
powerless. I took a Claritin and three Sudafed. Nothing. No difference
whatsoever. Oh…it was awful. Every time I’d have a sneezing fit, I’d do it six
to ten times. Multiply that times the eight or ten fits and I figure I sneezed
at least 75 times on Saturday. The first 40 or so were pretty funny and it gave
Katie the giggles whenever I’d start up. Somewhere around sneeze number 43 or
44, though, her laughter turned to sympathetic coddling. It was appreciated
because the muscles in my neck and shoulders were in absolute shambles by the
end of the day.
Yesterday morning, my neck was so wrecked I literally
couldn’t turn my head to the left. I nearly ran into a little red BMW getting
on the interstate because I couldn’t turn my head to look beside me and I spent last night ignoring practically everyone to my left at a
Super Bowl party. If I did turn toward them I resembled
Frankenstein, turning my whole body to face them. This morning I feel much better, but my sinuses have yet to drain and my entire upper body reeks of Bengay, Icy Hot, and oatmeal. I smell like a convalescent home.
This is what kitty cats do to me.
(rw)
