I'm beginning to think I'm developing an allergy to things I like a lot. Like gin, for instance. My favorite alcoholic beverage is a gin and tonic. G&T's, as I so fondly call them, have been a favorite of mine for years. Now, suddenly, each time I drink one -- even a sip -- my neck breaks out in a rash and my face turns flaming red and becomes hot. Tonic water and lime alone don't cause this reaction, so I know it's the gin, damn it! Now I have to search for a new favorite drink. Tough work, but somehow I'll muddle through.
Three summers ago, I learned the hard way that I have a sun allergy. I've always been sensitive and have had to be careful due to my white skin, but on a trip to Mexico that year, my feet and ankles swelled up like blistered balloons after a twenty minute stroll down the beach. Not fair! I'm a warm weather girl. A beach bum. An ocean lover. I adore nothing more than feeling the heat of sunshine seep into my pores, sand between my toes, salt water lapping at my feet. I refuse to give all that up, even if it means applying sunblock every ten minutes. And, if that decides to stop working, I'll resort to wearing an old lady swimsuit and a big floppy hat.
Now my newest allergy, apparently, is strawberrys. I love them in ice cream, on shortcake, with cereal. I've never had a problem with them before, but this morning I ate some with my Cheerios and my tongue started itching. Please, no! Not strawberries! What's next? My husband? Will I look at him and break out in hives?
One thing I'm allergic to that I don't like so much is waiting. Waiting for the next visit with my sons, who are away at college. Waiting to get that check in the mail. Waiting to see the cover of my next book, and then for the book to show up in stores. Waiting for those extra pounds to magically fall off, for that new wrinkle cream to start working, for my laundry to wash itself, for the dog to learn to feed herself. You get the idea. Right now I'm waiting to hear what my agent thinks of the two new book proposals I sent her yesterday, checking my email every half hour to see if she's sent me a message. What's the matter with her? Why didn't she drop everything when my proposals showed up in her "In" box? What else could the woman possibly have to do other than read my work? Sigh.
Wish I could stick around and talk about something profound but, alas, I have to go check my email again. And maybe try a martini while I'm at it. A'la' James Bond--shaken not stirred. With Vodka, not gin.