Itchy Scratchy

I Draw the Line on Birkenstocks

I’ve spent the week covered in little patches that contain things I might be allergic to, so that I can finally figure out why I’m so itchy these days. I’m being tested not for pollen and cats and the usual stuff, but things—rubber, fabric dye, wool, and so on. I look a little like a children’s party game, a version of Pin The Tail on the Donkey, because the doctor circled each patch with a Sharpie so he can keep track of what’s what.

Photo by Brett Jordan on Unsplash

I’ve been thinking about what the results might mean, lifestyle-wise. It would be interesting to discover you are allergic to inexpensive fabrics or cheap dyes and are required, medically, to wear only the purest of silks and unbleached muslin. Would my medical insurance cover this? Recently, I’ve been reading about Alpha-gal syndrome, that tick-borne disease that makes you unable to eat meat or dairy: Insta-Vegan. Apparently, it’s so common on Martha’s Vineyard that a lot of restaurants are changing their menus to accommodate all the Alpha-gal sufferers in town. I used to try to convince myself that I was allergic to chocolate (I’m not), just because I ate a lot of it and had no willpower to eat less. I figured if I could psych myself into thinking I had a chocolate allergy, I would muster the inner strength to resist it. (It didn’t work.) Too bad ticks haven’t evolved a Choco-gal syndrome for us snackers.

Years ago, I had some infection—I have no recollection of what it was—and was prescribed a medication that, unbeknownst to me, was the same drug as Antabuse, a medication given to alcoholics as aversion therapy; that is, if you drink alcohol while taking it, you get violently ill. When I was prescribed the medication, I did note that there was a warning not to drink while taking it, but I assumed it was just one of those cautions suggesting you would get drowsy if you mixed it with booze, but nothing more extreme. That night, I went out for barbecue. This wasn’t tomato-based barbecue; it was North Carolina vinegary barbecue, so tart that it made you pucker. I quickly learned that Antabuse doesn’t distinguish between alcohol and vinegar, and that drowsiness would have been a blessing compared to how violently ill I got. Of course, I was on a first date, and there was a lot of explaining to do, about how I was on Antabuse but I wasn’t an alcoholic, etc., etc. (I never saw him again.)

My secret fear about my patch testing will be that I will learn I’m allergic to Birkenstocks. There really isn’t anything in my wardrobe that is as dominant. As soon as it’s meteorologically justified, I am in my Birkenstocks, day and night. I have an embarrassing number of them in many different colors. Once I met Cynthia Erivo, and we were both wearing Birkenstocks, and she confessed that she was something of an addict and had more pairs than she could count. (Her partner, Lena Waithe, was overhearing this conversation and was nodding along with a bit of exasperation.) I have other sandals, but my relationship to my Birkenstocks is singular. I’m not sure what I’d do without them, and when the top of my foot got itchy, right where the straps hit me, I panicked. I cannot see a future for myself that doesn’t include Birkenstocks, so I’m calling on all the footwear gods to protect me tomorrow when the doctor rips off my patches and declares what’s eating me. Thoughts and prayers, folks.

SHOW NOTES

—Don’t sleep on “Mr. and Mrs. Murder” on Hulu. It’s a great crime-as-sociology series, and the filmmakers got great access to the main characters. I blew through all the episodes in one sitting. I really am looking forward to my second career as a detective.

—Uniqlo has a series of Tshirts that are artist’s renditions of Mickey Mouse. They’re very cool. I got a Mondrian-inspired one. They’re unisex, so they run big; I found an XXS online but not in the store.

—In my idle hours, I’m trying to decide what to wear on my book tour, and most urgently, what to wear for my epic Symphony Space event. Suggestions welcome!

More soon. Enjoy the dog days of summer, why dontcha?