Just before Christmas, I had one of those days. You know those days. They start off weird, and then just get worse. But this day started with me waking up and realizing it was still dark. Now that’s not the most unusual thing in the world, because I tend to wake up early. But then I realized that it wasn’t still dark outside.
It was dark because I couldn’t see. Now this? This was unusual even for me.
I say that because I am the proud possessor of the worst vision on the planet. Seriously. My eye doctor says that he only has two patients with worse vision—and one of us is in her 80’s. (Here is a hint: it’s not me.) That aside, when you wake up and can’t see, you figure one of two things have happened: 1) the sun has gone Supernova or whatever that thing is that they threatened us with in 7th grade science class; or 2) possibly there is something wrong with you.
After careful consideration, I went with option 2. Mainly because I couldn’t remember the science behind option 1, but I kind of thought that if the Supernova thing had happened, a lot more would be wrong than me not being able to see.
So I felt my eyes and boom! They were huge and puffy and apparently swollen shut. And that was why I leaped out of bed and came quickly to the realization that I would not make a good blind person. See, I jumped out of bed, thinking I would automatically know my way to the bathroom because my other senses would take over and guide me to the sink. Like super powers or something.
Yeah. So it turns out my other senses didn’t exactly switch to superhuman the minute I couldn’t see. But after running into walls, tripping over a chair, and nearly knocking myself out on the doorframe, I finally got to the sink and was able to pry open my eyes and see myself.
And that, my friends, was something I never should have done. You know those movies where somebody eats something they shouldn’t have and their face blows up until they look like they’ve been in a losing battle with a puffer fish?
I looked just like that. And I don’t mind telling you; it was not a good look for me.
So obviously I was allergic to something. But rather than go to the doctor—because as we all know no self-respecting mother faced with Christmas and a puffy face goes to the doctor—I started eliminating possible suspects in the Great Allergic Reaction of 2010.
I started with the Christmas tree. It was a lovely tree. Granted, it had no decorations on it, thanks to No-no Lulu, but it was still lovely. And out it went, to sit forlornly on the back porch. And the next morning, I pried open my eyes to discover a newly puffed up pair of Angelina Jolie lips to match my swollen eyelids. Yeah, still not a good look for me. Especially since I only got the lips and not the face or body to go with it (which is really unfair, if you ask me).
Then I decided that the wrapping paper I had wrapped every single gift in was to blame. No, I didn’t toss out all the presents. But on Christmas Day, Harry got to unwrap all my gifts.
And yet I still resembled a puffer fish.
So finally I relented. I went to the doctor. And I found out that I am allergic to glitter. Yes, glitter—as in the glitter in my sparkly nail/toe polish and my wrapping paper. I know it’s weird. But honestly, I’m starting to think that weird is my normal. And yes, I do know that it took a long time for me to understand the obvious.
Anyway, an allergy to glitter, while not life changing, is kind of a bummer for me. I like glitter. What can I say? I’m Italian-American. Have you seen my people? We’re talking sequins, poofs and glitter. It’s what we live for. Well, and hairspray. And possibly spray tanning—although I’m not into that. Seriously, is it just me or do Snooki and company look like an entire generation of oompa-loompas?
Come to think of it, I can live with being allergic to glitter. I can only thank heaven above it’s not an allergy to rhinestones. Then where would I be?Add me to your rss reader | Become a Fan on Facebook!