Kitty In A Frying Pan
My relationship with my skin has been a long, frequently bloody, and chronically itchy war. From birth, my skin has fought against me, reducing me and my mother to tears as everything she used to bathe me or clean my clothes resulted in another bout of hives and newborn whimpers.
My entrance into this world was as terrifying and dramatic as it was humorous. For context, I am the second born of three, and I am telling this story as it was told to me by my mother.
I was nearly a month late when my mother's water broke in the middle of a December night the day after Christmas. She calmly got up, rolled my still sleeping father side to side as she removed the soaked sheets, and rolled him side to side again to put fresh ones back on the bed. She spent the next couple of hours doing laundry, packing for the hospital, and tidying up so she would come home to a clean house with a brand-new baby.
Now in the wee hours after midnight, my father finally roused from his beauty rest to see what all of the fuss was about. In what I can only imagine was a state of detached delirium, he grabbed a beer from the fridge and put on a Rolling Stones album on the record player. I was my father's first biological child, and I think the realization that I was finally deciding to show up broke his brain a bit, sending common sense careening out the door.
Things are moving a little faster now—too fast, in fact—and my mother is beginning to sense that something isn't right. She finally gets my dad loaded up in the car to make the hour-and-a-half drive to the hospital. Puttering his Volkswagen Beetle at a casual 45mph on a 60mph highway, my father nonchalantly inquires how far apart my mother's contractions are. "Oh, well... about every two minutes." My father's eyes go wide as he wakes the fuck up and hits the gas peddle.
They finally arrive at the hospital, and my mother knows for certain there's something wrong. She explains her symptoms to her doctor and discovers that my blood pressure is dangerously low (a problem I still experience to this day). They strap her to a table and twist her body 90° to relieve the pressure of my mother's short torso off of me. My umbilical cord is wrapped around my neck, and I need an emergency C-section.
Even before birth, I had a flair for the dramatic and hated any change to my immediate environment. I was a month late. It was nice, warm, dark, quiet, and snuggly in there, and way too cold, bright, and peopley outside. “I'm not leaving, dammit!” Apparently, if I was going to be evicted, I was taking my mother out with me. As someone who identifies as an anti-natalist, I find the irony of not even wanting myself to be born utterly hilarious. “You'll have to come and get me, you bastards!” The Spartans at Thermopylae, the Battle of the Little Big Horn, the sinking of the Bismark, and The Attack of the Dead Men ain't got shit on the last stand I'm about to throw down in this uterus.
Understandably, my parents are kinda freaking out at this point.
The anesthesiologist comes in smacking away at a piece of bubble gum, looking way too pleased with himself. "You're chewing bubble gum," my mother growled. "I HATE the smell of bubble gum." "Not for long!" the anesthesiologist quipped and placed a mask over her face.
Ninety seconds and an incision from hip bone to hip bone later, and my wrinkled, purple, pissed-off tiny heiny had lost the war with my physician overlords, having been violently extracted from my cozy domicile and whisked away to be rinsed of amniotic goo and bundled in a blankie. Once the shock wore off and I turned a healthier shade of pink, my mother swears I started giggling.
The Battle of the Birth was over, but now the Dissent of my Dermis would begin.
My poor mother spent the next several months playing a game of Russian roulette with every product my temperamental tuchus came into contact with. Fabric softener, laundry detergent, soap, lotions, baby wipes, and diaper cream all became a possible trigger for another allergic reaction. Through trial and itchy error, she finally gathered a smattering of household and hygiene products that didn't result in red, raised, weepy welts and helpless tears. Tide, Downey, Dove, Dial, and Jergans were the winners and the products I still use to this day. I do not deviate, and I refuse to buy anything else.
My grandmother once bought me a set of tiny soaps heavily fragranced with rose when I was around seven or eight. I have no doubt that my mother had discussed my skin issues with her. Still, she was the kind of sick bitch that would give a girly girl pretty soap that smelled divine but caused blistering hives that required several doses of Benedryl and an oat bath to remedy because she thought she knew better than my own mother and did whatever the fuck she wanted. That woman was evil, but that's the topic for another blog post.
Now, as an adult, I keep to my safe products, but I still get hives spontaneously with seemingly no catalyst. I can't be out in the sun for longer than 30 minutes without breaking out into a rash (que the vampire comments). Even skin-on-skin causes issues. I've never experienced the bliss of sleeping nekkid because my skin is so misanthropic, it can't even be in contact with itself for too long before it has an itchy temper tantrum. I buy hydrocortisone in one-pound tubs and mix it into my lotion after I shower, as well as keeping a tube in my purse for emergencies. I have to do small patch tests every time I need to use something new.
I once had a tattoo artist tell me he only used Saniderm (an after-tattoo bandage that acts like a second skin and supposedly helps them heal faster) and became irate when I told him I wasn't comfortable using it. I'm severely allergic to adhesives, meaning I can't use bandaids, medical tape, nail glue, or liquid skin without causing welts and scarring. I insisted upon doing a patch test before putting it on a $600 tattoo, which he finally agreed to with much huffing and puffing. I didn't last an hour before I texted him a picture of my itchy, bright red, blistering square of skin and received a humbled, "Oh, shit. I guess you were right" in reply. Yes, dipshit. I've been living in this easily irritated meat sack my whole life and have learned a thing or two about what will piss it off.
I do, however, still make mistakes...
My skin allergies have made romantic relationships rather problematic over the years. When getting to know a potential canoodling partner, there's always a list of questions one would typically ask: What's your favorite food? When's your birthday? Star Wars or Star Trek? Cake or death? Favorite music? Will you murder me in my sleep? What's your relationship like with your mother? Can I have that last french fry?
"What laundry detergent do you use?" is not a question most people anticipate when meeting someone over wine and tapas. But the answer will unequivocally determine whether I decide we can blow this popsicle stand and do some exhilarating boinking betwixt his (ideally clean) dermatologically inert sheets.
The first and only time I did not inquire as to his preferred laundry suds was a double whammy of allergic chaos that formed such a traumatic memory, I'm currently breaking out in a rash now as I write this post.
Ben was the guy I dated throughout high school, and we were each other's first in virtually every sexy way possible. He was gentle and kind, respected me and my body, and was open to trying anything after a thorough discussion followed by enthusiastic consent. I was already on the pill for medical reasons, but he still insisted on using condoms to ensure neither of us ended up as another statistic of teen pregnancy. I always felt physically and emotionally safe and loved, and I honestly couldn't have asked for a healthier introduction to sex and intimacy.
He was a computer genius and could navigate the early internet in ways I could never understand. Being horny teenagers, he bought condoms in bulk online, which always came in a variety pack of random "styles." Ribbed, flavored, colored, glow-in-the-dark, ultra-thin, lubed—you name it, it was in there.
As a small aside, yes, I do have a latex allergy. However, mine was acquired due to the prolonged use of latex medical gloves I wore in the early days of my dental career. I don't have a systemic allergic reaction to latex, so back then, I was still able to use latex condoms with little issue. Currently, I get what is called contact dermatitis, where only the area that stays in contact with the offending allergen is affected. Anywhosies, moving on...
Ben and I would often meet back at his house after school for naked aerobics since he would have the house to himself for several hours before his father returned home from work. As was typical, he grabbed a random condom from his hidden stash, and we got to it.
Within a few minutes, I knew something was horribly wrong. I was on fire. My kitty wailed as a burning sensation filled my insides like I had used a jalapeño as a dildo. "STOP! STOP! STOP!" I cried as Ben looked horrified. I pushed him off me and ran into the bathroom to get a better look at what the fuck was happening to me. It looked like my puss had been scalded with boiling acid. I was too focused on my screaming nethers to notice that my back was also turning red and starting to itch.
Ben gently knocked on the door. "Babe, what's wrong? Are you OK?" "I need my purse, NOW! ...Please," I yelled through the door. I turned on the faucet to the shower and hurled myself in, squatting in front of the freezing cold torrent of water to run it over my inflamed naughty bits. I was nearly in tears.
Ben knocked again and opened the door. "Here's your purse. Holy shit, your back—" I cut him off to direct him to the emergency Benedryl in my purse and took it with a mouthful of running bathwater. "What the fuck was on that condom??" I growled, likely sounding like a possessed daemon. He walked into the bedroom and came back with the condom wrapper. "It says, 'warming sensation' on here. Do you think you're allergic to it? Your back looks really red, too." I shot him a raised eyebrow and a look that would have melted lead. "Gee, ya think?!"
I stepped out of the tub to inspect my back in the mirror. I looked like I had been repeatedly slapped with a fly swatter. "Oh, no... What detergent do you use? This has never happened before!" I said, becoming increasingly shrill. Ben made his way downstairs to the laundry room and came up a minute later. "Gain," he reported. "My dad must have bought it on sale."
His dad, although not poor by any stretch, pinched pennies worse than my own father, who had me believing we were nearly destitute until middle school, but he still had brand loyalty on certain items. Ben's dad would buy whatever was cheapest that day, so Gain laundry detergent must have been that week's deal.
He looked flustered and left the bathroom, and I suddenly felt awful for snapping at him. I got back into my awkward squatting position in front of the tub faucet to continue rinsing my blistered lady lumps. I couldn't get my hair wet, or my perceptive mother would start asking questions I didn't want to answer.
Ben returned with a plastic cup in his hand and sat on the side of the tub. He filled the cup with water and told me to brace myself for the shock of icy water he poured down my back and shoulders. I asked him to scratch my back for me, and he obliged. It wasn't his fault, but I could tell he felt guilty. He continued to pour water over me until both me and my skin had calmed down, and we could both laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.
My lady parts finally cooled to a low simmer, my back returned to a less intense shade of red, and I began shivering in the frigid water. I couldn't trust the towels, so I asked Ben to grab the cheap paper towels on the kitchen counter that disintegrated upon encountering liquid in a vain attempt to dry myself off.
Itchy, grumpy, damp, singed, and unsatisfied, I put my clothes back on and went through the assortment of condoms, pulling out any that contained the words "warming," "cooing," "heat," or "ice" and threw them in the trash. Ben looked morose. "Wait, you're leaving? Don't you wanna..." I shook my head. "Honey, my vagina feels like I fucked a blow torch, and my back is crawling with fire ants. I've had enough excitement for one day." He pouted. "Sorry." I kissed him and drove home.
Mistakes were made, lessons were learned, I'm still itchy, and I'll never buy self-warming lube, Icy/Hot, Gain detergent, Snuggle fabric softener, Irish Spring soap, or anything from Bath and Body Works. Nope, nope, nopeddy, nope, nope. All the nopes.
I just heard the Amazon delivery guy drop off my new tub of hydrocortisone. After writing this, I'm gonna need it.
*scratch scratch*
