Bringing Disease and Pestilance to the New World

A form is presented to you, maybe pushed across to you in an interrogation room, or perhaps handed to you on a clipboard at a dull downtown insurance conglomerate. You break into a half skim, filling in the 'gimmie' questions like "Date of Birth", "Current Address" and "Profession" (the latter being an awkward experience for me), but leaving some trickier questions like "Blood Type", or "Income Level" (always am I tempted to clumsily edit 'Theoretical' on the left of this one to make the question a little easier) giving me time to go through a 'if i fuck this up it'll be really embarrassing' 10 second pen-tip-to-chin tap before answering. Eventually 'Please list any food allergies' appears on the list, and let's be honest, there's a certain sense of genetic pride in ticking the 'None' box. Those of us with no heredity issues, 20/20 vision, even a life of being broken bone free, we not only enjoy our quoted insurance costs, but also a vain sense of elitism that we know deep down is unearned, but this rationality doesn't stop us from lifting our necks and poking our chests out a touch more than the general population. Unfortunately for me, my days of genetic elitism are over. I discovered that I have a food allergy.

Twice a week, a chef by the name of J.D comes to our house and cooks large batches of food, to last until his next visit. At first I was skeptical. What would be the ramifications J.D's service would have on my work ethic? Being waited on hand and foot, although an exaggeration in this case, is not good for keeping me grounded. If there's one thing I've learned about myself in 25 years of near-consistent breathing, its how easily I lose perspective, and how even more easily that can translate into a 24/7 life daydream vacation. But enough pseudo-conditioning bullshit. Practically, having restaurant-quality food available at all times is a godsend for productivity. As a self-confessed eating addict, one who hates the feeling of hunger and loves the calming satisfaction of a big meal just ate, the less worry about the former, the better. Food is that important to me. People notice when I haven't eaten. I'm irritable and have difficult paying attention. Avoidance of this state is a big enough life priority to trump all others.

The first two weeks went well. Great food, tantalising variety, and its nice while fighting off a virus that food consumption need only a 15m walk from bedroom to kitchen, with no need to worry about icky processes like food preparation. Then not long after my virus subsided, bad luck struck. A giant trout-slap of bad luck. Never had I an allergic reaction from anything in my life. Like I said earlier, I considered myself part of the elite. Neck high, chest out, etc etc, until one morning last week. I awoken to a some light itches that seemed centered around my feet and lower waist. In a morning zombie trance thus not thinking much of it, I slipped into the bathroom to attend my morning business, reaching and prodding for the light switch with the usual half opened eyes. *click*. The eye adjustment came quicker than usual, from the shock of my mirrorly reflection. 80% of my body was covered in a thick red rash, in some places resembling skin boils, with only my face spared. Congratulations, you're covered in hives. And it was getting worse. The itch was slowly spreading, partly from the psychological effect (things are always worse when you notice them) but I'm sure something psychical was going on too. My ass and lower back now required an ape-like reach around to sooth. I was fucking scared. "What the hell is this, why is this happening, is this related to my virus?!". Questions swirled in my brain but luckily my rational planning instincts took hold, translation: 'wake my poor spanish speaking roommate 4 hours into his sleep and drag his ass with me to a hospital'. Luckily, from then on in everything would go smoothly. The hospital gave me the option of a direct dermatologist consultation needing only a small wait, who turned out to be a cute girl in her early 30's with a sprightly smile and an authentic white coat. She calmed me with her professional re-assurance and prescription notepad filled with a range of drug ideas. I left the hospital somewhat relieved, so my roommate and I celebrated - with a trip to a nearby Burger King, as you do in times of crisis.

But what caused my skin's meltdown? The Doctor said it was probably my O.T.C. drug medication (binned shortly after), but allergies to other things like food could also be the cause. At that point I was close to certain the drugs were the reason. I had taken double the suggested dose (don't do things half assed my father used to say...), which sounded too poetic not to be the culprit (disobey packet recommendations at your own risk I've now learned). The hives cleared up by mid-afternoon and my old meds were now firmly positioned in the bottom of the trash can, so I resumed life as normal, even going out to dinner that night with friends (I ended that early however, because my stomach virus kicked up again thanks to my new drug abstinence). Unfortunately for me, red dots started appearing again lightly on my arms around 11 O'clock. Rationality mode kicked in again. The drugs weren't to blame. It was a food allergy, the process of elimination pointing squarely at J.D's salad.

A salad. A Caesar salad. A particularly good Caesar salad that I enjoyed. It was the culprit. Something in it was to blame for an allergic reaction in my skin, causing me to break out in hives for about 8-10 hours. The next morning I made sure to intercept J.D, who was also dumbfounded at how the salad of all things could be the cause. "All the sauce is is an egg-based mayonnaise with nothing more". It took a 5 minutes conversation for us both to come to the same conclusion; this was fucking weird. I've eaten Caesar salad's frequently from all over the world, including Argentina. Never has a single crumb given me an allergic reaction (let alone a full blown rash attack), I've traveled most of the western world, sampling local foods from many street corners and food kiosks. I wish there was an explanation, some obscure ingredient that I could narrow down and used in the future as pre-meditated party story. "You know what I'm allergic too? Bolivian nightshade spice! Yeah I know, crazy right? More exciting than airplane nuts!" *queue blond girl laughter*. But there is none. Just a mystery. A mystery which brings my elitism down a peg. Not to mention my form-filling out times.