seriously... brown shoes, black socks, grey pants. no lie.

Today I had my follow-up appointment with the allergist. Getting up before noon has already become a struggle, so I arrived out breath and very oddly dressed at 10:30 AM on the nose (miraculously, as I had left the apartment at 9:57 AM). The office was quite full today. I got to read several fine articles in Us Weekly and checked out who wore it best (which is really “who I like better” or often “who I even recognize.” Who the hell is Alexandra Burke? Whoever she is, she did not wear it best.).

From the waiting room, I could overhear another poor sap failing the breathing test. First, there was the exchange of vague instructions: “So what you are going to do is…” “Wait do you want me to do this or this?” “No no no, you are going to [deep inhale] and then blow blow blow blow blow!” “Wait, so…” and then the inevitable doing it wrong. “Blow blow blow blow blow blow blow…no. Try it again.” I think this guy was a smoker. Even worse. I ended each failed test with a giggle or two. He ended his failures with a wet coughing fit. Ew.

For me, today was the “stick you higher up on your arm with bigger needles going deeper into your skin” day. Awesome! Just what I wanted! A needle stuck into a weird corner of my arm near my elbow. Oh! Bonus! Little drops of blood everywhere! Back to the waiting room. Who wore it best? Some chick from Gossip Girl or Academy Award winning actress slash L’Oreal model Penelope Cruz? That’s tough.

Back to the doctor. Apparently, I am allergic to everything in the world except shrimp. It is like my body went out of its way to be allergic to everything but the thing I went in for. Bermuda Grass is on the list now. A couple of other things I didn’t recognize. Dogs. Whatever. But the big prize was dust mites, which apparently mean I have to buy really expensive bedding and never own an upholstered couch again. Hooray!

Oh, and the most disgusting part? Well, there are two. One, the minefield of scabs that now cover my right arm. And two, apparently people with dust mite allergies can also have shellfish reactions—given similar physiology between the two species. Um. Ew. I have always been uncomfortable with the idea of shellfish, as they looked like massive bugs—and apparently, they are. Disgusting.

So, what now? Other than being allergic to everything that ever existed, I will soon enough be the owner of $300 sheets and $150 pillows. I imagine that for unemployed people, really expensive sheets are a sound investment. And I have a couple of nice little scars left over from the last test. I swear I look like a heroin addict with Parkinson’s disease.

In other news, I have an ingrown hair in my armpit, which is not disgusting, uncomfortable or awkward at all. My body is ridiculous.

on the plus side, I can eat all the cockroaches I want

I was laid off yesterday. More on this later.

In the past couple of weeks, I had convinced myself I was allergic to shrimp. So, it was off to the allergist.

I have gone to a doctor plenty of times convinced I had some ailment which I did not. I imagine it comes a lot from my parents who dealt with a lot of sick progeny who were typically not me. So when it was me—say, the time I got a weird, puffy bug bite or the time I stabbed my hand with a pencil—it was a trip to the emergency room, just like any of the other kids. It didn't matter how minor it actually was. So now, any time I suspect something may be wrong, I visit the doctor.

The visit typically begins a long story. I don’t know if that is how most people start off a doctor appointment, but it is how I start one. “Well,” I begin, usually with a sort of a high-pitched intonation. “Well…” and then we take a nice little journey through an anecdote without a lot of the salient information but with a dash of unnecessary specifics.

“Well,” I began (after some runaround with the receptionist and the insurance card and the referral I was told I didn’t need but I did need but it was okay because they were going to fax it over). “Well, I was eating shrimp at this event we had at work where they were giving us some free food and felt funny afterwards. And later I was eating Chinese food that I had ordered in and I felt funny again. I don’t know how to describe funny. Like. Unusual.” The doctor asked, “How long ago was this?” I had no idea. A week or so. Maybe a month. No, that doesn’t sound right.

The doctor asked a few more questions about what “funny” meant (you know, funny. Not like I usually feel. Not like I felt before). Then, I took a breathing test with a little Asian nurse. There was definitely miscommunication. “What you’re going to do is…” And then the test wouldn’t read right. “No, you’re not doing it right!” “I don’t know what you’re asking me to do!” I felt like she was trying to teach me to drive for the first time. “Breathe, breathe, breathe!” “I have no more breath!” “That’s because you’re doing it wrong!” I am pretty sure she jumped up and down at one point.

Sidebar anecdote: it brought up the memory of a visit to the eye doctor in which the technician pleaded with me to open my eye wider to take a picture of it with some expensive machine and I crossly protested that I could not. “Please try!” “This is as far as they open!” Anyway. I’m pretty good at math, so it balances.

Somewhere in there, I got something usable for the doctor to see (whose door was open the whole time and I am sure could hear the whole conversation). And then came the pinpricks of allergens. One of them was “cockroach” which is disgusting one on level already. But then I found myself playing out this story in which it wasn’t the shrimp but a cockroach in my Chinese food that had caused the reaction and that garlic sauce was really cockroach bath sauce.

It wasn’t.

And I’m not allergic to shrimp. At least not by the first round of testing. I am allergic to cats and grass and tree pollen and a bunch of other things he mentioned that I hope I wasn’t supposed to memorize (what’s a tree plantain?).

So, in addition to joining the growing ten whatever percent of unemployed Americans in this economy, I am also joining the ranks of (judging by the patients I witnessed flitting in and out of the office, greeting the receptionist by name) nebbish (white) men with medically diagnosed allergies. Great.