Dating Scott: A Rash Decision
Before we were married, Scott and I lived in different states. He was in Ohio. I was in Tennessee. And we were old friends who had reconnected after decades, two divorces, and a few “what the hell, let’s try again” kind of phone calls. So naturally, when we started dating, I made a few road trips and flights north to see him.
Three trips. Three urgent care visits.
Let’s break it down.
The Poison Ivy Debacle
On my first trip to see Scott, we decided to go geocaching. You know—like hiking, but nerdier, with GPS coordinates and buried Tupperware. Super cute in theory.
There was a sign that warned about poison ivy. And yes, I did wear capris like a fool because apparently I thought my shins were immune.
We traipsed through the woods like a low-budget version of “Survivor: Romance Edition.” The cache was found. The photos were cute. The itching started on the plane home.
By the time I landed in Tennessee, my legs looked like they’d gone twelve rounds with a barbed-wire fence.
Urgent care visit #1: steroid shots, calamine lotion, and a mild lecture from the nurse.
Salad, But Make It Toxic
Trip two. We’re feeling confident. In love. Domestic.
We go grocery shopping together like a newlywed ad. I decide we’re going to make salad. I grab shiitake mushrooms—because I love them. Scott hates mushrooms, which, in hindsight, was the red flag I ignored.
Now here’s the thing: shiitake mushrooms need to be cooked.
Do you think I knew that?
No.
I sliced them raw into my salad like the crunchy, confident woman I thought I was.
Scott skipped them, smartly. I ate them, proudly.
And the next day I broke out in a rash that looked like I got lashed by Satan’s belt. Long, raised streaks down my back. Itchy. Red. Angry.
Urgent care visit #2. Diagnosis? Shiitake dermatitis. Apparently, that’s a thing. And yes, it hurts just as bad as it sounds.
The Pink Eye Wrestle War
The final pre-marriage urgent care trip was the one that nearly ended us.
It started with flirting. Then joking. Then full-blown wrestling in his living room like we were twelve.
Now, here’s where the story diverges.
I say Scott licked my eye.
Scott says something else, but he’s wrong and I refuse to print lies on my blog.
All I know is I woke up the next day looking like I had done shots of bleach with both eyes.
But instead of going to urgent care like a normal human being, I decided to tough it out for two full days.
Tears. Oozing. Crust. Burning.
Romance was alive and well.
Urgent care visit #3: antibiotic drops, shame, and another nurse asking, “Wait… how did this happen?”
Postscript: Married and Medically Stable
Thankfully, since Scott moved to Tennessee and we tied the knot, I’ve been Urgent Care free.
Now, I didn’t say hospital free—but that’s another story entirely.
Marriage: less pink eye, fewer mushrooms, and pants that fully cover your legs.
Progress, not perfection.
