I have a f***ed up immune system. Yeah, the snot’s so high up my face, I can’t be bothered with writing a classier opening sentence. I’ve come again for my, what has been for a while, monthly self-pity party. A smashing rant for a starter, whining for the main course, and I can’t be bothered with dessert because, you know what, happy things are lies. Cupcakes are con-artists.
I had to go to the florist today. I don’t know if I’m allergic to pollen, but I thought that getting white chrysanthemums with some small fuchsia-coloured-but-not-fuchsia flowers besides the ones I had been sent to get would cheer me up. My eyes were red and watering throughout when I was buying them and my b*tch of a nose refused to follow up on its promise of a sneeze, making the florist think I was already upset over Valentine’s Day.
And okay, it’s not totally my nose’s fault. I don’t take care of myself. I don’t exercise, get enough nutrients or sleep or sun, and often I drop out of civilization. But, to be fair, civilization consists of dust mites and poisonous gases, and all the jobs are in the city (not that most of them want me, no matter the location) and its just a vicious cycle that’s much bigger than me. Things are so bad that, get this, I live in a tropical country and my skin is allergic to heat. I get heat rashes no doctor has ever been able to diagnose and they hang around until it’s winter again. Yeah, summer is ice-cream for you guys, but for me, its getting rashes and the flu from eating too much ice-cream.
I don’t need to dig deep into my soul to find the reason for my misery. It’s right there sandwiched between my face cheeks.
I’ve had this all my life, you know. Long before life embittered me. I have my survival kit – inhaler, anti-histamine tablets, vitamins, hot beverages, vaporub, nasal spray, tissues as well as re-usable tissues i.e. handkerchiefs, anti-bacterial cream, chocolate because chocolate makes everything better, 60s music and three video subscription services. I also have self-compassion like this evening when I’ve given myself permission to not feel guilty about not getting any work done. But, I’ve spent thirty years of my life like this, frequently finding myself unable to breathe and I wish I was speaking metaphorically. I’ve spoken to doctors, legitimate ones given by how much they charge, who ask me to move to the mountains.
I was born in the foothills of the Himalayas, b*tches,* with a picture-postcard view of them from my balcony. My nose was still f***ed up.
I feel a need to change my life. Just for the sake of my nose. If there are any such utopias on this planet with clean air, good immigration policy if outside India, and jobs for English postgraduates, please let me know. For now, I’m going to make myself a mug of Horlicks. I’ve also got Classics by my most-played-band-that-germinated-in-the-21st-century She & Him playing on the bluetooth speaker. Their cover of Dusty Springfield’s “Stay Awhile” beckons me.
How do you deal with allergies? Getting a stronger immune system? Does moving to the mountains really help?
*Not like my nose kind of b*tch. This is an affectionate form of b*tch.