Diary of a Hive-Filled Life

I have recently come to the conclusion that God, in his infinite wisdom and humor, finds it hilarious to plague me with unusual body abnormalities. Within the past year, I have been struck down with a debilitating case of swine flu (this included the embarrassing experience of having to go to urgent care wearing a surgical mask), pink eye - not once, but twice (and considering when you get a case of pink eye you're forced to throw out all of your makeup, this is one extremely expensive - not to mention disgusting - virus), and now, the most recent case of my unusual health hiccups: hives. For the past two weeks or so, my body has been covered with red little bumps, vaguely resembling blotchy patches of acne (hot). As if the fact that I look like a sunburnt leper wasn't bad enough, I'm the itchiest girl to ever walk the face of the planet. I itch in the morning when I wake up, I itch while I drink my coffee, I itch while I lie in bed and watch continuous hours of Netflix, I itch while I eat dinner, and I itch while I fall asleep. Now some people may be thinking "Suck it up, Robin." Well to those people: YOU suck it up! It may not seem that bad, but to constantly be scratching yourself trying to sooth an incessant itch is obnoxious, never-ending, and not exactly deemed socially acceptable. Right now I'm sitting in Coffman Union scratching at my collar bone,  hoping the creepy boy in the bright yellow hat seated across from me doesn't glance over at me while sipping his exceedingly feminine-looking drink (next time skip the cookies and cream frappucino and settle for a coffee, sir).

Now, the obvious solution to this problem is to go to the doctor. Well I tried that. The trip resulted in the doctor taking the time to spell out "HI" on my back by scratching it into my skin with a toothpick and watching the hives magically appear. Then she told me to wait it out. Well thanks m'am, I'm glad that you're able to use me as a human hive-filled magic erase board, but that answer is a little disconcerting considering my fantasies have shifted from cuddling with Clay Matthews to cuddling with a cactus as I fall asleep.

Not only are these little buggers all over my chest, back, stomach, arms and legs, but they have invaded my lovely little dome. In other words, the skin on my face is awkwardly blotchy and bumpy, and my scalp is constantly burning. I don't think I'm going to make any friends in my new classes because I'm sure I'm known as the girl who sits in the back scratching at her noggin all hour, while awkwardly fidgeting in her chair. Not only has it affected my new life in academia, it has affected my life at home. My roommates are now used to me walking around shirtless, tearing at my skin. Bethany's love-filled reaction is "Aw! Can I get you anything???" While my sweet, sweet, sweet-hearted roommate Maggie's response is, "Ohmygod stop doing that." ("What a sweetheart!").

Luckily since it's so cold in this blustery city, I can cover it up like this:

...without being mistaken for the unibomber. It's also lucky that I'm off the market romantically because I know every red-blooded male who sees this picture is going to want to snatch me up, and I'm too busy scratching my hives to start dating right now. Sorry boys. When it gets to be less cold out and this look would be frowned upon, perhaps I'll start wearing polos and popping my collar. This raises yet another problem that 1) I don't own a polo and 2) I'm not a douchebag. Though I'm pretty sure Sam Kubek would let me borrow his Carlson polo if I'm extra nice to him, hoorah.

I'm going to go home now, dose up on my new best friend, Benadryl (and Pinot Noir), and pray that God finds it in his heart to be kind to my fragile body... knowing that bearded fellow however, I'll probably end up with a case of the Tree-Man disease next month.