I’m a bit of a delicate flower. Which is a nice way of saying that if I think about poison ivy or look at it from 347 yards away, I break out.
With two dogs and a fence line that is occasionally overgrown with questionable vegetation, this means I’ve had more than one brush with everybody’s least favorite rash. The dogs brush up against the plant. The dogs brush up against me. I get the oils on my skin. I get the rash of death.
So, this week I’ve had a patch of poison ivy on my arm that’s about the size of a large grape. And boy howdy, has it ever itched. Like, I’d wake up thinking about the throbbing, itching heat on my arm. Holy crap. The itching. Itching!
Also? It looks awesome. Oh, you know Cha Cha? That girl who works on the 16th floor? You know, the one with the arm leprosy?
Combine that itchy, visually appealing awesomeness with a nice visit from Aunt Flo, and, well, you’ve got yourself a party. I am a mess. It’s been a great week.
I haven’t seen much of My Guy this week. He’s had a nasty cold and has sequestered himself away. “I can’t get you sick,” he said. “I would just feel so guilty.”
I thought he was just being overly sensitive and unable to think straight due to an overabundance of mucus. Then, he put it all in perspective.
“You already have poison ivy and your period. If you get a cold, too? Well, that combination is what killed the dinosaurs.”