Springtime means different things to different people. Some think of spring as the time when animals come out of hiding and flowers blossom. To others, it is the season when girls’ sunless-tanned legs come out of hiding and young love — or at least young lust– blossoms.
For me, however, spring does not induce thoughts of frolicking in fields of wildflowers or picnicking in the park with a hottie in short shorts. When I think of spring, I think about taking a cocktail of allergy medicines and hoping it’s strong enough that I don’t drown in a pool of my own snot, but not so strong that I wake up from a Benedryl coma in a panic because I accidentally slept through all of my classes for the day.
I understand the plight of the student who sneezes even at the slightest mention of the word “pollen.” I get allergy shots twice a week. Every morning, I take three nose sprays and an assortment of over-the-counter pills that promise to relieve my runny nose and watery eyes. I have even tried some of the more holistic methods of allergy relief, like taking shots of apple cider vinegar before breakfast, and nothing has seemed to help.
I have come to the realization that I cannot make my allergies go away, but maybe I can try to be more positive about living with them.
Maybe I would not be the person I am today, if my allergies had not prevented me from going outside for recess as a child. All of those afternoons in elementary school, sitting inside by myself, as my peers ran rampant on the playground, probably served to make me more independent and more imaginative.
Most children would get bored playing Connect Four alone every afternoon, but I became much better at entertaining myself because of it. I invented alter egos from different parts of the world who played against each other. For instance, Coco, an aspiring French model, would always knock over the whole game if she thought she was going to lose, while Candy, a hair stylist with a thick Jersey accent, was always getting phone calls from clients and was often too busy to take her turn.
Maybe this made me a better fiction writer because I was always thinking of character quirks and odd back-stories for my alter egos. Maybe it made me a better actor because if I did not stay in character, I did not have anyone to play with.
But, who knows, maybe I gained nothing from having allergies as a child, and these were just early signs of schizophrenia.
If nothing else, I will soon have enough snotty Kleenexes and empty bottles of Zyrtec to create a decent-sized modern art sculpture. If I get enough support, we can put it in the quad to remind us of the hardships that–according to Wikianswers, a source that has never let me down in the past–55 percent of Americans face every spring because of seasonal allergies.
When I win the Nobel Peace prize I will be sure to thank this year’s record-breaking high pollen count for my success.
Holly Combs can be reached at [email protected]
