Nurse the Hate: Hate Food Allergies

In my previous post, a comment was made regarding the rarity of actual food allergies. Despite every overprotective mother that believes their child is allergic to bee stings, tree nuts, gluten, shellfish, dust, pollen, cats, dogs, and God knows what else, most people aren’t actually allergic to these things. Sure, there may have been a one time incident, but the body adjusts. My face turned red one time after eating a dodgy piece of fish, but I did not swear off all aquatic life after that. I took it for what it was, a one time incident. I didn’t get fish at that restaurant anymore though…

I did encounter an actual food allergy once, and it was pretty spectacular. A thousand years ago when still sowing thy wild oats, I took a young woman out on a date. I remember her as being a bit odd in that the first time we went out, she offered me her cheek at the door. I figured that she didn’t like me very much, and planned on moving on. I was surprised when she called me a couple days later and initiated us getting together again. I was not really that interested, but to be honest I was in my twenties and did not have a lot of options at that time, so I figured “What the hell?”

When I picked her up at her grim little apartment, she let me in while greeting me in her robe. She told me to sit in the living room while she finished getting ready. We were talking small talk across the apartment as I absentmindedly flipped through coffee table books. She couldn’t decide on which shoes to wear and said “Come here and tell me which ones you like better.” I walked back to her bedroom and she was standing there in her blouse and two different shoes. That’s it. A top and two different shoes. Now, I find it a bit odd that a girl that didn’t even want to kiss me two days ago asked me to come back to her bedroom to display her pussy. I found it even weirder that we both pretended that nothing was out of sorts as we decided on her shoes. There was no sexual vibe at all. It was really sort of disturbing receiving what can generously be called “mixed messages” from this woman.

I had a pretty good game plan set up for this date. There was an exhibit at the Art Museum that seemed interesting, and then I would take her to a quiet little restaurant in Little Italy. This seemed like a way to portray myself as worldly and well rounded, and would hopefully increase my chances at getting inside her underpants in that grim little apartment later. I was very focused at this young age at appearing to be much more interesting than I actually was. The key was always misdirection. If she focused on the art on the wall, she probably wouldn’t notice that I was a complete goon.

I don’t remember that much about the night except this image I have in my mind of the both of us at the table. The small café table had a flickering candle, and the bread had already been placed. I was drinking a Moretti, and she had some cheap wine. We both were staring at the menus, and she was deciding on what to order. I remember finding her indecisiveness annoying. “I was thinking about either the chicken or the linguini with clams.” I vividly recall saying, “You should get the clams. You can get chicken anytime.” She ordered the clams. That’s all I remember about the dinner.

On the car ride back to our side of town, she started to complain that her throat was itchy. Then she said she felt like she was swelling. I looked to my right, and noticed I was driving Quasimodo back from a date. The transformation was really impressive. She looked awful. Her head was swollen up, and it looked like one eye was larger than the other. Her speech started to slur as her tongue kept swelling. I suggested we stop at an emergency room, but she was adamant about getting back to her apartment. There was no doubt about it. She should have ordered the chicken.

When we got back to her place, she went back to her bedroom and threw herself on her bed. I called the local emergency room. As expected, they offered no useful information and just wanted me to bring her in. While I was on the phone, she ran into the bathroom and barfed up the clams. That continued for a couple rounds. I did the “small knock on the door are-you-ok?”. When I became convinced her swelling was subsiding and she wasn’t going to choke on her own tongue, I slunk out of the apartment. I’m sure she was as relieved as I was that the evening was mercifully over.

I don’t remember doing anything with her again. Frankly, I was put off by the choice of her cheap shoes when she was showing me her vagina and pubic strip. That food allergy thing sure didn’t help either.