Allergies Can Kill Your Dating Life
I used to have an amazing man in my life. His name was Dallas, and he was my cat. He was a feline built upon by sheer snobbery. If Dallas were a character from a TV show, I’d say he was Niles from Frasier. Elitist and judgemental, but you still wanted him at a dinner party. Dallas’ critical eyes served as my moral compass. He knew when I was up to no good, and he wasn’t having it. Although it may seem pathetic, an adult woman with a cat as a den mother, I still loved that furry guy with all of my heart. We were bound until one of us kicked the bucket.
Now, just because I had one guy in my life, didn’t mean I couldn’t have another. Even Dallas wanted me to be happy, and he often accepted a male caller or two. If Dallas approved, then all was right in the universe. Enter David*.
David was a bartender at my local watering hole. He was tall, good looking, and charming. He also didn’t go to college which seemed super rebellious at the time, and I knew it would drive my mother up a wall.
David and I had been flirting for weeks, and one day, he finally asked me out. Bartenders are dating experts. They know all of the cool new restaurants and their servers, so we got a ton of free stuff. Oh, how we laughed! Sure, I was not a fan of the way he’d cock his head to the side, blink his eyes in exaggeration, and say “hi” when we had been hanging out for 6 hours already, but one cannot be picky.
The date was a hit, so we decided to take the short trek back to my place for a nightcap. As we ascended the stairs, I said, “Hope you like cats.” David stopped midstep. “I’m actually exceptionally allergic,” he replied.
“Noooooo!!!” This is every single cat owner gal’s nightmare. And the worst part about it was that I couldn’t help but think, “Come on man. How allergic can you be?” I gave him that look. You know the look. The look that says, “Well, what are we going to do about this?” His response? “Maybe I’m not allergic to your cat.” We continued to climb the stairs in giddy jubilation.
As soon as we entered my apartment, Dallas was there to greet us. He needed attention. David immediately freaked out, avoiding Dallas the way I avoid spiders. “It shouldn’t touch me. IT SHOULDN’T TOUCH ME!” Um, I’m sorry. Did you just call my guy an IT?
David’s eyes began to water, they turned bright red, and soon enough, the sneezing followed. He could barely muster a “I can’t stay here,” before he fled the premises.
We all know those people who claim to be allergic to things that we all know they aren’t allergic to: gluten, dairy, menial labor. This was not the case for David. This guy really was allergic.
David was nice. I liked his broad shoulders and the way he laughed at my jokes – even when they weren’t jokes. But Dallas is my guy, and nobody comes between me and my guy – not even allergies. Except death. Dallas decided to leave this plane on my 34th birthday. That little diva always stole the spotlight.
*Names have been changed to protect the sickly.
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