- A computer killed itself during the production of this episode. I don’t think that was a reflection on the quality of the jokes.
- This is the 3,000th video I’ve forced my kid brother to participate in against his will. I also make him mow the lawn at my house, because I am afraid of the lawn mower. Sometimes I buy him candy to make up for this behavior.
- I have yet to find a bug that’s cool enough to make people want to be my friend.
P.S., A true friend of mine would subscribe to Life and Steph. Hint, hint.
You know the opening credits to the original “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory,” where the machines are squirting out chocolate, and stirring chocolate, and smoothing chocolate? You know the ones I mean. They’re the most soothing opening credits in the history of movies.
Well now I live in them. By “live,” I mean “work,” and by “in them,” I mean “in a similarly soothing candy factory, but one in which no one wears purple velvet suits or performs a dance routine when children have potentially fatal mishaps.”
Outside, everything is incredibly beautiful and deadly.
I don’t want to be too dramatic, here, but I’m pretty sure that spring is trying to murder me in my sleep.
Fun fact: You can develop an allergic reaction out of the blue any time in your life. One afternoon you’re fixing the same peanut butter sandwich you’ve enjoyed for lunch every day for decades, and the next you’re on the floor in anaphylactic shock, swelling up like one of those expandable water toys. (I don’t really know if you can develop an allergy that extreme so quickly, but it makes you think twice about your next Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, doesn’t it?)
The same thing is happening to me, except instead of peanut butter it’s pretty flowers, and instead of anaphylactic shock, I just have a lot of boogers.
People who have been suffering from allergies for years are getting really tired of my whining. They’re mistaken, though, because I’m not complaining. I’m just talking through a dismaying series of revelations regarding the innumerable horrors pollen can inflict on one person’s body. I learn new things about histamines all the time. For example, one day my back is covered in hives, and the next I can’t hear out of one ear thanks to sinus pressure. Every day is a new adventure!
My symptoms cropped up in early March and all signs point to them continuing through the end of June. That’s a long time to live like this. Long enough that I’ve given up on some dreams. I used to be a person with ambition. Now my only goal is to be awake and breathing at the same time.
Things You Can’t Do When You Have Allergies
- Breathe. I do alright in the daytime, but lying in bed at night is a different story. I was having a horrible time until I discovered pseudoephedrine. That cleared things right up with no weird side effects. Oh wait, that’s not right.
- Eat. Turns out pseudoephedrine is an appetite suppressant. I learned that after a long day at work when I’d forgotten to eat lunch and I still wasn’t hungry at dinner time. My brain was like, “You need to eat stuff or you will die!” and my body was like, “…Eh.” I forgot to eat lunch because I was super-focused on work that day, which is another side effect of the drug. That’s strange. That sounds almost like meth.
- Pass a Drug Test. It sounds like meth because pseudoephedrine is an ingredient in meth! Fun! Until you have to take a drug test as part of a job interview! And you test positive for methamphetamine!
- Sleep. Despite its methy qualities, I kept taking the drug because I value oxygen in my bloodstream. But it’s hard to sleep on an upper, and by the time I finally do fall asleep, it wears off. I’ve been awake at 4:30am every day for five weeks, unable to breathe through my face.
- Stay awake. I tried Benadryl a couple times. It’s a classic for a reason, right? Wrong. The people who recommend Benadryl are clearly sleepwalking through life in some kind of gluey, wavy Benadryl haze. They’re talking crazy and they don’t even know it.
- Wear makeup. I’ve been rubbing my mascara around so much I look like Alice Cooper in a cardigan.
- Talk. My vocal cords are irritated and no one can hear me scream.
Pretty much the only thing I can do is sit quietly, staring emptily into space and trying not to look too high while I wait for the next hive to pop up.
“I’ll be on my game again in July,” I think during brief moments of lucidity. “After July 1, it will all be ok.”
And then some cheerful schmuck says to me, “April showers bring May flowers!”
Please. Please make them stop. Make the flowers stop.
Hey, you like mole people, right? Then you’re gonna love episode two of Life and Steph:
I was listening to a podcast the other day (I know we just started this post, but let’s take a quick tangent here. It is so cool that this is the future and I can use my tiny pocket computer to order a radio program down from the sky and play it anywhere I want, any time I want, and it’s called a podcast. That sounds like something straight out of a science fiction novel, and not like something that occasionally lulls me to sleep, resulting in me drooling on my tiny pocket computer. OK, back to the thing.) and the guest said that being in your 20s is like a second puberty.
Good thing I dodged that bullet, I laughed to myself, picking at one of several zits that recently appeared on my chin.
I was still thinking about it the next day. Being in your 20s isn’t like second puberty at all, I said aloud to the cats while browsing online stores for clothes that would finally make me cool.
I can’t even imagine going through that horrible nightmare again, I thought two days later, doing my best not to burst into tears about nothing at all. I was having the weirdest sense of déjà vu.
Finally, halfway through a meal that consisted of everything in my kitchen, I had an epiphany. Hey, I thought. This is totally crazy, but I’m starting to think that being in your 20s might be like going through a second puberty. Actually, that would explain a lot.
- My body is doing weird stuff. It took my neck a week to feel better after I slept on it funny, and now it does this weird, wet popping thing every time I tilt it. Also, gaining weight is suddenly easy. Frighteningly easy.
- I’m really moody. The tiniest things can set me off. One minute I’m on top of the world, and the next I’d like to crawl into a hole and die. Today I actually threw a temper tantrum. It’s like seventh grade all over again.
- I keep experimenting with new identities. Who am I? What do I want? How do I get there? How much eyeliner is required?
- I’ve been wearing a lot of eyeliner. And I purchased it because I was feeling emotional and thought eyeliner would fix everything. I’m pretty sure I had the exact same conversation with myself when I was 13.
- No one thinks I’m cool. And I’m trying really, really hard to be cool. Because cool kids have a lot of friends. Oh yeah…
- I’m struggling to make new friends and keep the old ones around. In eighth grade, my parents encouraged me to join a soccer team to meet people. I don’t want to join another soccer team.
- What is the deal with boys? I just figured out dating them, and now my friends are marrying them. I’m still a little worried about catching cooties.
- Adults are being condescending. I don’t have everything figured out, ok? YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND WHAT I’M GOING THROUGH. NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ME.
Being in your 20s is almost exactly like middle school all over again. The only difference is that instead of everyone judging me based on my shoes, they’re judging me based on the personality I developed to get through Puberty #1.
I had a lot of coping mechanisms for Puberty #1, as I recall.
- Eye-rolling. A powerful weapon against my parents, I’ve found that it’s harder to get away with a good eye roll in the workplace. That’s stupid because I’ve been in some meetings that could have benefited from some well-timed disrespect.
- Endlessly rereading To Kill a Mockingbird. Jem understood seventh-grade me, and Atticus understood Jem so he understood me, too. Now I feel more like Boo Radley.
- Distracting myself with intense crushes. I found love in the middle of Puberty #1 thanks to David Bowie in Labyrinth and Orlando Bloom in the Lord of the Rings trilogy. But that’s no help these days because no one has heard from Orlando Bloom since 2006 and Bowie has returned to his home in a glittery purple supernova.
- Looooooooooooooooooong phone calls with my friends. I can’t remember what we talked about for four hours at a time, but whatever it was, it worked. I tried to call my middle school friends on their landlines like old times, but Hannah’s been married for four years and Kristin moved to Florida.
- Getting really into lite rock. Eventually I found out about actual rock music, but there was a weird period between ages 11 and 12 when I would only listen to programs hosted by sultry female DJs on stations with names like KOSI. I don’t need lite rock anymore. I have podcasts. (See? It sounds like a luxury spaceship feature.)
- Writing terrible poetry. I don’t even want to talk about it.
I seem to remember that not one of these strategies worked. A few of them made puberty even more frustrating (looking at you, passionate crush on 1986 David Bowie.)
Unfortunately, I think the only way to get through the horrible, soggy marsh that is pubescence is to age out of it. I remember counting the days until I turned 18, because then I’d be free. (That’s not how it works, of course, but it gave me hope in my darkest, most poetry-heavy hours.)
The good news is that it’s only 1,432 days until I turn 30.
I’m not good with feelings. I don’t like my own emotional reactions because I haven’t figured out how to control them very well. I really don’t like other people’s emotional reactions because they leave me flapping my hands in distress and making faces that apparently are not comforting.