I’ve determined my husband gave me his allergies.
Yes, while I’ll admit, the medical community would probably frown at the conclusion I’ve drawn, let me take a moment to make an argument for my case.
I didn’t have allergies before I moved to Eastern Kentucky. (Apparently, I was living a life of bliss, and I didn’t even know it.)
My husband, however, grew up as a regular allergy shot taker, and now laughs as his allergies are minimal, while mine have not only developed, but keep getting worse
In fact, I’ve joined the ranks as a full, year-round allergy sufferer. All year. Yes. Something bothers me, all year.
This is why I blame my husband entirely for my problems, and have therefore determined allergies are contagious — or, perhaps, something that’s in the water — seeing as, these are the only things that makes sense.
I also can’t help but wonder if the fact that I’m not a true Kentucky native is coming back to bite me, and this is somehow my punishment? (I came to Kentucky from Texas via Indiana.)
I didn’t grow up surrounded by the plethora assortment of pollen we seem to have around here. So, my body had no time to compensate and buildup immunity. This seems like a direct affront to all of us outlanders.
But, everyone assures me to have no worries; allergies are common here.
And upon further examination, I’ve realized, it’s true; Louisville ranked as the number one city in America (Fall 2015) for allergy sufferers by the Asthma and Allergy Foundation of America.
So what is it with Kentucky?
Perhaps it’s our proximity to the Ohio River, more deciduous trees simultaneously releasing pollen, or the rampant growth of weeds, but something is definitely against us.
Of course, I should probably mention there are a few good things about living in Kentucky, like bourbon chocolates, fast horses and a love for basketball (at least UK that is).
Notably, all good things.
But, sometimes it’s hard to enjoy the delights when you have to stock up on Zyrtec, Benadryl and Sudafed just to leave the house. And I would very much like to go outside and enjoy the fine early spring weather predicted by Punxsutawney Phil. But instead, I’m buried beneath a pile of Kleenexes.
Although, on the flip side, I will admit, my sufferings have led to a few, slight advantages.
My husband felt very sorry for me when I spent the afternoon helping him stain the deck, only to be left sneezing, lightheaded and frog-sounding as a result.
(I’m sure the sight of me passed out with drool and snot all over my face after taking two Benadryl to try to go to sleep had a hand in it, too.)
And since this time, he’s been working very diligently to cut, stain, and put up, the new spindles all on his own.
I might have to make what I can of a bad situation, and milk this for what it’s worth. Yes, honey, even taking out the trash seems a little daunting at this point. After all, life is too short to wallow in your misery.
