I’m home from church again, miserably stopped up from allergies masquerading as a cold again, and every time I take a sip of water, it requires me to stop breathing through my mouth and then I start dying, and as I’ve been dying on an off for a month now, it’s getting pretty old. I try to stick to my blogging philosophy of No allergies, PLEASE because otherwise, every post written between January and September would include a description of my sinuses. However, it’s worth noting that I have only been able to go on one date with my husband since January, and throughout our romantic meal, I plowed through two entire packs of tissues and had to chew with my mouth open in order to avoid asphyxiation. Sexy.
You’d think a little friendly neighborhood pollen wouldn’t have that much of an effect on my day-to-day reality, and it probably wouldn’t—itching eyes and Neanderthal table manners aside—if not for The Haze. As I [attempt to] breathe, my brain accumulates layers of yellow-green dust that act as a mental smog. It takes all my energy to ride a train of thought to its conclusion these days, and more often than not, I lose my bearings mid-sentence. Surprisingly, writing becomes a lot more difficult when I can’t remember what I was…… uh…?
Take this post, for instance. I think at one point, it had one. A point, I mean. Whatever that point might have been, though, has disappeared into the yellow-green ether, and I can only hope that it was a good one. All I can remember at the moment is that I have a freelance deadline tapping its foot from my desk chair (as I bulwark myself in bed) and that the laundry still is not nor ever will be finished and that I can’t pop another antihistamine until… well, I don’t actually know when because I can’t remember anything from more than seven minutes ago.
In times like this, by which I mean every day between January and September, I have to rely on what I know to do instead of what I feel like doing, and maybe that’s why I was so desperate to nail down a life purpose before the end of our Christmas trip—because it was either that or spend the next nine months in bed with an ice pick. In all my hours of talking it over with loved ones and bouncing ideas off of God and journaling myself crazy, I have received less of the detailed personal business plan I requested and more of a single-facet word: WRITE!
And so I’m writing, even though I can’t remember why I should or why I started or more than anything else, why…
If you suffer from seasonal allergies, which utensils do you fantasize about using on your own head? (I dream about ice picks and Brillo pads, though today, I’m inclined to scratch both and just go for a guillotine.)