Poison
Uh-Oh
The way of
a fool
is right
in his own eyes:
but he
that hearkeneth unto counsel is wise.
--
Proverbs 12:15
Didn't I clamber all over hill and
dale at kiddie camp, and never got poison ivy?
Didn't I hike all over the back
trails of northern Minnesota picking blueberries, and fishing along the
creepiest, crawliest, back-woods shores?
Didn't I cavort at "woodsies" out in
the boondocks in college, and on camping trips, and while gardening? Haven't I
spent more than my share of time in the "cabbage" of the deep rough on golf
courses near and far?
And in all that time, I never got
poison ivy, or its evil twins, poison oak and poison sumac. Never! Others
itched . . . but I remained Dermatologically Unprovoked.
Until last week, that is. Oooh! I
got it . . . BAD!
The red-speckled undersides of my
arms look like the Tattooed Lady! From ankle to knee, it looks like I got in a
knifefight with a near-sighted midget. I even had it on the tips of my ears and
down both sides of my neck, apparently from fussing with my hair.
It's my own darn fault. I knew there
was poison ivy among the weeds around those grand old cottonwoods ringing our
neighborhood pond. A neighbor had to be hospitalized with an extreme allergic
reaction after a workday down there; my beloved had gotten a touch of it, and
it wasn't fun.
But I was immune! I was SuperWeeder!
Hundreds of people were coming there
for our neighborhood's annual fireworks show. That's why I wanted to weed under
the trees, even though people wouldn't even get there 'til it was too dark to
see.
But my perfectionistic streak forced
me to ignore these warnings, and go down there and spruce things up.
Did I wear long sleeves and long
pants? Nah. It was hot!
Did I let my rake and other garden
tools make the contact? Nah. I got right in to the piles, scooped 'em up and
stuffed 'em into bags. Hey! I HAD on GLOVES!
I threw my work clothes immediately
into the washing machine, and took a sudsy shower. No spots! No itching!
Next day, I strutted around, the
intrepid garden Goliath.
But at 3 a.m., I awakened with
RAGING VOLCANOS ERUPTING FROM THE CROOKS OF MY ELBOWS DOWN TO MY WRISTS! Before
my eyes, ominous pinnacles of pink skin peaked, then oozed, and transformed my
bed into Camp Itchipoogottascratchit.
I made a beeline for the Caladryl
lotion. Better! Kind of!
Two hours later, the volcanos were
back, this time on my legs. I woke up like a contortionist, my body shaped into
the letter "O," my nails scratching my ankles into a bloody pulp. Then new
volcanos erupted on my arms. Back and forth it went.
Call your doctor, friends advised.
Nah. He'll get really mad.
Instead, I got online and started
reading the scariest and most confusing amateur medical advice imaginable. Rub
100% Clorox on it with a washcloth until it burns.
No, Clorox will scar - use brake
cleaner!
No, that hurts too much. Apply a
thick coat of white shoe polish!
No, just take a shower in the
hottest water you can stand, to literally scald your skin so it can't feel any
more. Bite down on a rolled-up washcloth when you really "get cooking."
No! Cold water! That's the ticket!
With Fels Naptha laundry soap.
No, no, no. You put 20 tea bags in a
hot bath, soak for 20 minutes, pat yourself dry, and blow-dry yourself on the
highest setting. Talk about hot air!
My favorite advice was to use
alcohol. Not on your itchy, owie skin - but to drink yourself into blissful
unconsciousness. If you're conked out, you won't scratch.
A week's gone by, and the volcanos
have finally calmed down. Now I just look scabby and icky.
It would have been sooooooo simple
to heed the warnings, and not even go around known poison ivy in the first
place.
Simple . . . smart . . . and so out
of character. But if it's the way to stay out of Camp Itchipoogottascratchit, maybe
I'll wise up at last. †
