What a Happy Ending

Last week, I realized I had poison ivy.

My first reaction was something along the lines of "shitfuckshitgoddamnmotherfuckshit." You see, I have a long, terrible history with the dreaded rash. Every summer for as long as I can remember, I have been plagued by that demon plant's poison oil. Apparently, one of the genetic endowments from Father was an incredibly high sensitivity to urushiol.

The first time I developed this rash, The Moms had no idea what it was. Since my legs were covered with oozing, puss-filled, bloody* wounds, The Moms covered them with opaque tights before taking me to the doctor. In August. In The 'Sip. The misery that ensued is one of my most vivid early memories.

Every summer following that, I managed to find my way to the nearest batch of the bastard plant and roll around in it. Well, that is, what I must have done if you listen to the medical gurus' dictation on the subject. They claim the rash doesn't spread. They claim you can't be infected by someone else's oozy, puss-filled rashes. They claim you only get the rash if you come in contact with the plant.

Now, I'm not contradicting the prevailing medical theory, but all I know is that I learned to spot mine enemy early on and avoid it like the plague. It didn't help. If one of my brothers got poison ivy, I did too. Even if we hadn't been to any of the same places in weeks and I only spent 10 minutes in the same room together after he had the rash. And, no matter what, the rash always spread. Just sayin'...

When I was checking groceries the summer after high school, I noticed the tell-tale fiery itch one night mid-shift. At the point of discovery, I had one little red rash about an inch long on my lower abdomen. By the next day, the fiendish plague had overtaken the better part of one-half of my body. I went to the doctor and called out sick. Believe me, with a rash like that covering your arms and face, no one wants to buy their groceries from you.

So last Tuesday, when I instinctively reached to scratch my arm, I recognized the fiery itch and stopped myself. Shitfuckshitgoddamnmotherfuckshit. Poison Ivy. FUCK.

Two fairly small dots butted against one another on my right forearm. To an untrained eye, they would likely appear to be innocuous little pimples. But if the years of recurring summer battles have taught me anything, it's to know what this rash looks like.

Immediately, my mind started racing. I thought back to the day before and realized I'd been scratching this same place for at least 24 hours. Where the hell could I have gotten poison ivy?

No clue.

I braced myself for the worst, imagining waking the next morning to find the rash covering me from head to toe.

I can't skip out on training this week, the company has spent too much to send me. I guess I'll just have to deal with being hideously disfigured for the rest of the classes. It's not like I'm actually going to see this people again anyway... Right?

Fortunately, the worst never came. It's a week later, and the rash only spread to four more little annoying dots on my forearm. They're nearly gone now.


I don't want to speak too soon, but I think perhaps my super-sensitivity to this menacing little vine has abated as I've gotten older.


* Yeah, bloody. You try to keep a 4-year-old from scratching poison ivy, dammit.