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  • Writer's pictureLeah Jones

Im allergic to you.

I have written before about how I loathe allergies and people with allergies. I have always looked upon people who complain of hayfever and milk allergies with disdain. I have considered it a character flaw attached to personality.

And then a few years ago I started to experience the odd phenomena of “having allergies.” There is my allergy to the sizing used in wool textiles. I thought it was a reaction to the flu shot, but it was my new sweater from Lane Bryant.

Then there has been the recent addition of seasonal allergies. Of a sudden wave of stuffiness and sneeziness that is cured by a Walfinate–by allergy medicine of choice.

Tonight at the Kehilla lecture, a guy sat down next to me. He had no sense of space and opened his legs in a wide V, pushing me to the side and I wasn’t even his date. Then it hit me. His cologne. Like an incoming wave, first I smelled it and then I felt it. My nose clogged up, I started sneezing, I started sniffling.

I was allergic to the man sitting next to me and the lecture was only halfway in. I had no drink and can’t swallow a pill without water, so I had to torture my neighbors.


I hope they don’t think the gentile was doing cocaine in the middle of the Hebe lecture.

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