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Ah the chicken pox. Probably the most common childhood disease ever, and one that most everyone gets by the time they're 7. Except me. Because I like to be different.
I very clearly and very distinctly a visit with my pediatrician when I was very young. My mother was talking to him about the chicken pox and how I had be exposed to not one, but three, different kids with them and hadn't gotten them. Not one spot. He told my mother and I that some people, like myself, are immune to them, and in addition I would probably never have cold sores or the like either. I went on to have a happy, pox and cold sore-free childhood, which continued well into my (supposedly) adult years. Until last Thursday.
I woke up feeling...off. I was achey, woozy, and pretty certain I had a fever. "Ah, the flu," I thought, "great..." And so, I called in sick. Friday, same thing, only I had what I thought was a couple little bug bites that were slightly itchy. Saturday, I woke up, went in to take a shower, looked at myself and said, "Oh. my. God." and then I swore for a little bit. I was covered in tiny, red, awful-looking spots from head to toe. Seriously? I'm 28, I thought I had safely made it past the point where I wouldn't have this problem. That's what happens when you get too sassy I suppose. So I emailed my boss, talked to my doctor, and was officially quarantined to the house until all my spots fall off.
I was mad about it for a little while, but it's really so ridiculous it's hard to be mad for too long. At the end of the first day I had decided in the spirit of Halloween I would dub my disease the apoxalypse, settle in, and just try to make the most of my time at home.
I still haven't had any cold sores (knock on wood), and I hope to keep it that way. But the lesson learned here is never say never.
