"Not crazy, corn allergy."
That line's been pulled out a few too many times for comfort in the past week. It's always delivered with my best toothy grin and a laugh, I'm hoping I can just be one of those quirky gals, not the crazy lady.
It's not enough to be allergic to what I eat or drink, what I touch can be a problem. I've been doing a lot of volunteer hours with new sets of people lately, I may only know the director and she doesn't know the full extent of my precautions other than having to count me out when food is involved. Because of this I wind up in some corn-y situations that are safe enough as long as I don't have to touch anything.
Like any reasonable adult, I go into this well prepared, with a pair of gloves in my back pocket. Along with my allergy gear, I also carry a box of latex-free (be nice to people with latex allergies!) disposable, unpowered gloves in the car. This latest box is great, they are just the right size, with textured fingertips to make it easy to pick things up. Unfortunately, they are also a delicate shade of lilac making my Willy Wonka hands difficult not to notice.
So, "Not crazy. Severe corn allergy." Out come the gloves, and Ms. Wonka is ready to tape up signs and handle all manner of poisonous objects.
I'm fine with this approach, its practical, efficient, I look a little quirky or germaphobic but I'm getting the job done. I'm cool with it, really. Cool like the Fonz, till that moment I peel off the gloves, carefully keeping them inside out to contain the contaminants, and scan the room for a hazmat bin to drop them in. I still can't suppress the shudder when I put them in the regular trash.