Hilariously — I discovered some time ago — I had developed a severe allergy to band-aids. Specifically the adhesive: medical tape was out, waterproof, sensitive skin, Snoopy decals. I’d wear one for an hour and sport the telltale parallel welts for weeks, waiting impatiently for the sweet fade into a less violent, more subtle chemical burn. This problem has proved to be more inconvenient than you’d think. Holding gauze against one’s skin for a couple of hours, while usually hilariously doable, isn’t always an option.
“Doctor,” I said, “I think I have ringworm.”
“Indeed you do!” he cried. “Sweet Lord!”
“Oh, oh oh oh wait,” I added. “See, I didn’t want my boyfriend to catch it while we slept, so I covered all of the rashes with band-aids — only I’m allergic to band-aids, which I knew, only as I’ve gotten older the allergy has gotten worse I guess, so I’m hideous. Just ignore that, that and that, and this over here, and also that. The things we do for love, right?”
He stared at me in disbelief. “Ringworm isn’t communicable.”
“What!” I cried. “That’s not what the internet said.”