It’s allergy season.
I live in the sagebrush dotted hills of Yakima Valley in Eastern Washington State. ‘Having allergies’ is no small thing.
We are a city of farms and crops and flowers and trees, so pollen. We’re practically a desert, if it weren’t for irrigation, so dust. Also animals, “because farms,” so dander. Once the scorching summer sun comes out in full force the weeds take off like wildfire, which means more pollen. The ragweed kind.
To be fair, I don’t suffer as bad as some, but in my old(er) age (wtf total bs) I have developed a Goliath histamine response. From late April until late June, I’m Seven Dwarves all by myself – sneezy, watery, sleepy, cranky, runny, itchy, bitchy, and for the most part a completely unpleasant person to spend time with.
When my allergies get really bad, I stop listening to people when they talk. I spend half my time at work staring into space, the other half blowing my body weight in boogers out my nose.
I can’t focus, I can’t pay attention, because I’m too busy wishing I could shove a puffy pipe cleaner down my throat and out my schnoz (like the crazy-eyed middle school kid did with spaghetti in the lunch room), then grab both ends and give them hell, just to itch the spot inside my head that doesn’t stop itching for three months.
I can hear you now.
[“Um… just take an allergy pill. They do make those, you know.”]
Yes, yes they do.
Trouble is, I’m also an addict.
PILLS are a problem for me.Read More