Having an allergy attack the caliber of which I have the yearly joy of experiencing is soul shakingly horrible. The cruel joke is that they usually occur after a perfectly beautiful, achingly idyllic early summer day. The kind of day you look back on during a gray winter afternoon that induces yearning for sundresses and huaraches.
Which is exactly the type of evening I experienced Monday night. As I sat, my fingers entwined with those of the one I love, watching our beloved little boxer prance and play at the dog park I had a subtle premonition. The slanting light from the sun setting over the purple Rockies was just too lovely. The way my adorable pup looked up at us with pure unconditional love was too sweet. The sweetness lingering on my lips from a self-indulgent run to Baskin-Robbins was too fantastic. Something was about to hit.
And on the drive back to the house it did.
If you've never sneezed 23 times in a row, you won't really be able to empathize. By the time I flew up the stairs and threw open the door my mind had turned from the sane this-will-knock-me-out-for-at-least-12-hours thought process to the harrowed if-I-don't-get-some-benedryl-immediately-I-may-loose-my-mind mentality.
So, with great relief, I swallowed that little pink pill. The pink pill of doom. The pink pill that induces such deep slumber and body-numbing properties that I am stoned for a full 20 hours after ingestion?
And so here is my question: What is the point of taking a medication that blissfully removes all symptoms of said horrifying allergy attack only to replace it with Snow White-like death-sleep?