I woke up this morning looking like Quasimodo returning from a rave. As I beheld my pajamaed self in our bedroom mirror, holding my medical license I cut from the back of a cereal box, I could see that the right side of my face was swollen. My right eye looked a bit smaller than my left eye, and my arms looked like miniature chickens had a party on them all night. They had kicked up their feet in a frenzied barnyard dance, most extreme, leaving scratches and red bumps galore. I had not slept well. I scratched my neck absently. Wait, the chickens had been there, too?
Boop. Beep. Boop. Ga-hoogah.
“Dear saintly husband,” I texted, who had already left for work. “Me thinks I have a most severe, but not the severest ever (according to an illuminating, but slightly disturbing Google image search) poison ivy reaction. Please send puppies. And sympathy, if I’m ever to be so honest.”
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A.R. Clayton 