My wife would like me to go to the allergist for reasons that I do not fully understand. I am allergic to bee stings. I know this and have an ample supply of Epi-Pens in case I am ever stung.
They aren’t always readily available but I have an ample, if sometimes inaccessible, supply.
On the morning of my wedding day, I found myself surrounded by bees on a golf course with no Epi-Pen. It was the only time I ever picked up a golf ball and didn’t assess myself a penalty stroke.
I am also allergic to mustard. I break out in hives if I eat it. So I do not eat it.
I am 39 years old and I have never encountered anything else to which I am allergic, yet my wife would like me to go to the allergist anyway. And apparently the allergist concurs.
Because she is my wife, I have agreed, but I do not like it. And I will not allow them to poke me with six dozen other possible allergens in hopes of finding another.
If I’ve made it this far without encountering another, I can make it another 39 years.
Last night I had a dream that I went to the allergist, and after an afternoon of painful shots and tortuous skin pricks and endless tests, it was determined that I am also allergic to dinosaur bites and Talmudic scroll paper.
My subconscious apparently has a sense of humor and is more than a little annoyed about this future trip to the allergist as well.