Jen gave me a beautiful blue sweater at the restaurant, and I put it on even though the restaurant was feeling a bit warm.

Halfway through dinner, Jen turned to me and asked if I felt okay.  “Yeah, why?” I inquired.

“Oh, just wondering you know.  You’re face looks awfully red and you’re sweating a little.”

“Well, I’m pretty warm,” I agreed.  I took off the sweater.

I noticed that my arms were itching.  I gave them a good scratching, and then finished eating. 

We went back to Jen’s apartment for cake and ice cream.  Jen then asked again if I felt okay.  “Yeah, why?” I inquired again.

“Oh, you’ve got bumps all over your arms.  And there are some on your neck.  I think there are some on your forehead and nose too.”

I looked in the mirror.  I was breaking out.

“Darn that Japanese food,” I muttered.  “I must be allergic to sushi.”

“Yeah, maybe,” she agreed.

I tried to think.  What had I eaten the last few days?  My diet was nothing out of the ordinary, other than the Japanese food that evening.  Oh well, I decided to not worry about it.  A case of the hives would go away in a few hours or a day or two.

As I drove back to Schenectady that night, the itching not only increased its intensity but it seemed to spread all over my body.

Poison ivy?  The thought actually had crossed my mind once, but I dismissed it.  I knew for certain I wasn’t allergic to poison ivy.

When I got home, I took a shower and then crawled into bed.  I slept miserably that night, tossing and turning, scratching and rubbing, and tossing and turning some more.  At two o’clock I couldn’t handle it anymore, so I got up and turned on the light.  Perhaps I could read a little and then fall back asleep.  But when I turned the light on, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.  I was swollen.

I wasn’t just a little puffy.  I was swollen.  I was blistering.  A quick examination revealed that my entire body, head to toe, was swollen and blistering.  I looked about three sizes too big, or something like that.

The next day, when the doctor at the dermatology clinic saw me in the waiting room, he stopped dead in his tracks and then he burst out laughing.  He was nearly doubled over, he was laughing that hard.

“Do you know what you’ve got?” he asked.

“Japanese food,” I mumbled.  “I think I’m allergic to Japanese food.”

He burst out laughing again.  “No, my friend.  This is poison ivy.  This is a classic case.  Your picture should be in a textbook somewhere.”

Oh that made me feel better.

He gave me a dizzying array of steroid shots to reduce the itching and swelling, and seven weeks later the remnants of the allergic reaction were all but gone.

I learned a wealth of lessons through that episode, mostly centered on avoiding poison ivy like the plague.

The next time someone downplays the respect of poison ivy, tell them about nutuba, a tuba player who drove a red Dodge Dart, once had pi memorized to ninety places, and who fearlessly took on an ocean of poison ivy … and lost.