Did you think that this post was about tulips? It’s not. I just put them there so you’d click on my pretty picture. Got you, didn’t I? Well now that you are here you might as well buckle up for my hives story.
First, let’s flashback to 1975. I want you to imagine a pudgy little blond wearing a rocking bright red and yellow sundress. It was tight on the top with a bottom that would flair if you spun fast. Which was exactly what I was doing when my neighbor told me that I looked like I was on fire.
Now, let’s be clear–my father was a firefighter. Fire was bad. Very bad. I think it was the last time I wore that dress, ever.
Flash forward to last week. I’m cruising around the grocery store. Out of nowhere, I think that I just may be on fire. I’m not kidding. My whole torso felt like it was being bitten by miniature fire ants. The fire ants were loving it. It was like a party. It was like a fire ant Fourth of July celebrations.
No, things were not going well. I peered down my shirt, trying to analyze the situation. I was sly. I’d pull my shirt out and take a little peak. Then I pulled further. I think at one point my head was completely under my shirt. What I found there was shocking. HIVES! Big molten hives attacking every square inch of skin.
Flash forward to this past Sunday. I’m wearing my new orange and red dress (bought in memory of that childhood dress). It’s kind of tight on the top and flairs if you spin. I’m back at Hannafords Grocery. That’s when I notice people staring at me. Now, I might be paranoid, but I’m assuming that the people were either thinking:
“That’s the chick that stuck her head down her shirt in aisle 3!”
(And this is when childhood trauma hits you hard)
“Is that girl on fire?”
Isn’t it funny how we find these patterns in our life? The firefighter’s daughter is on fire, then on fire again, and then on fire again.
Today I’m wearing beige and carrying Benadryl. I suggest that maybe you do the same.