I’m Allergic to myself!
About six months ago, after a particularly vigorous two hours of pickleball (my only real form of exercise since my dog died), I suffered an episode of anaphylactic shock. My skin got red and horribly itchy, my tongue swelled, and I passed out twice.
I had no explanation for this. No insect had stung me (and I’m not allergic to stings). I hadn’t eaten anything unusual (and I’m not allergic to any foods). I had swallowed two aspirins about an hour before the game, but I’ve always used aspirin as my pain-reliever of choice and have never reacted badly to it. Nevertheless, on doctor’s orders, I did an aspirin “challenge” at an allergist’s office a couple of weeks later. No problem whatsoever.
Four days ago, after playing another couple of vigorous hours of pickleball, I had a mild version of the same outbreak. My palms got itchy, my face got red, my body broke out in hives. But I stayed upright.
In the middle of the attack, I asked Google if I might be allergic to my own sweat. Here’s what I learned:
“Yes, it is possible to be allergic to one’s own sweat, a condition known as cholinergic urticaria.
“Causes: Cholinergic urticaria is an allergic reaction triggered by the release of acetylcholine, a neurotransmitter, in response to sweating. The body’s immune system mistakenly identifies certain proteins in sweat as allergens, causing an inflammatory response.”
Gosharooties, it seems that I’m allergic to myself!
It’s true that in the past, especially during these “Days of Awe,” I used to have allergic reactions to my own personality: my self-centeredness, my anxieties, my objectification of others, my moodiness. But now that I’m in my seventies, it’s my own BODY that’s the problem! Most of the personality stuff has fallen from the tree, or at least shriveled on the vine. Instead, I’m allergic to my own sweat. Fancy that.
Indeed, back in the days of toxic personality traits, I never would have played pickleball: too faddish, too social, and I’m too busy and important. Now, in the days of toxic sweat, I’m more than HAPPY to play pickleball — but only if it doesn’t give me hives.
I guess being in your seventies means perpetually wondering when you’re going to feel 100 percent better. As for the eighties — well, stick around and I’ll let you know.
Here’s an instrumental guitar piece of mine called “Open Heart.” Hopefully I won’t someday have to rename it “Open Heart Surgery,” but if I do, it’ll be okay as long as I can play the violin — I mean, the guitar — I mean, pickleball — afterwards.