CRUSHES

It was my first date with Tom.* As I listened to him tell a very charming story I can’t remember anymore, I began to feel warm. Tingly. A little bit dizzy. My cheeks flushed and I stopped paying attention to what he was saying. My mind was racing.

I know what you’re thinking. But no, it wasn’t love at first sight. My throat was starting to close and my body was minutes away from anaphylactic shock, the life-threatening response to many severe allergies (including mine to tree nuts and peanuts).

“Um…what’s wrong?” he asked. My face had gone white with pure panic. For a few seconds, I contemplated my next move. I could either bolt to call 911 in private—or I could ask him for help. “So, I’m having an allergic reaction…”

As we raced to the ER, my mind bounced between terror—I knew needles and major drugs were in my near future—and pure embarrassment. Way to seem super high-maintenance on a first date, I cringed. Ugh, I could die. Literally. But I didn’t die...of mortification or otherwise. It was just another awkward moment in a lifetime of living with an allergy; a funny tale about a first (and final) date.

For as long as I can remember, my body’s potentially fatal reaction to peanuts and tree nuts has been part of my identity: When I was a kid, my mom dressed me in shirts that said, “Don’t feed me peanuts” (with a cute elephant, naturally). At school, I skipped the birthday snacks other kids brought in; there was just no way to know if the sweets were safe.

And as I got older, my allergy became the ultimate icebreaker, a fun fact I’d often bring up not just because people needed to know, but also because it was interesting and memorable. Questions always followed: “So you’ve never had a Snickers?” “How did you find out you were allergic?” “But what if you just smell peanuts?” “How long would it take you to die?” “Does coconut count?”

Honestly, I’ve never minded all the questions and curiosity because I believe it’s extremely important to educate others about food allergies, so this is my way of helping. And when it came to dating? I discovered my allergy actually offered an upside.

That dinner with Tom that ended in the ER wasn’t the first time—or the last—that a date went from cute to cringe-worthy because of my allergy.

But over the years, I’ve learned that with all the potential awkwardness and annoyance comes insight. Because, really, is there a better way to uncover someone’s true colors than by adding a life-threatening element to just about every occasion? Nope.

Let’s take Brian, my official eighth-grade crush, for example. When he finally leaned in for what would have been our first kiss, I jumped back in disgust. “Oh yuck, did you just eat peanut butter?” I shrieked in horror. He had. And the smell, to me, was repulsive. I explained. He apologized.

We definitely didn’t kiss that day. But the next time we hung out after school and he reached for the Reese’s in my neighbor’s candy jar? I decided we’d never be kissing at all. Because, really, if a guy can’t remember that his snack choice could kill me, it’s time to kiss him goodbye.

In high school there was Jake, who had the bright idea to hit up an amusement park together one Saturday. Before my mom dropped us off, she pulled out an EpiPen and proceeded to give him a demonstration on how to use it. You know, just in case I ingested some Cracker Jack by accident and he needed to stab me with the huge, life-saving syringe. “You better not eat any nuts,” he whispered as we got out of the car. “Because I’m not touching that thing.” It wasn’t such an amusing day after all.

And then I met Alex. He did a million cute things. Spontaneous cupcakes just because? Yep—a batch of my favorite flavor, carrot cake, specially ordered without the walnuts. He dropped sweet notes on loose leaf into my bag when I wasn’t looking. He programmed my name as “Dreamgirl” in his phone.

But the key to finding out his flirtiness wasn’t fake? Pizza—a seemingly safe snack choice for someone with a nut allergy. When grabbing a slice after a movie one night, I didn’t bother asking the server about any potential problems (because bread, cheese and tomatoes...right?). But Alex grabbed the waiter just to double-check and, who knew, there were nuts in the sauce.

OMG, I thought. Nobody has ever done that for me. Except my mom. And immediately I knew that if this guy didn’t mind asking ridiculous questions on my behalf, I also could trust him to skip the PB&Js when I’m hanging out with him…or even administer my EpiPen in an emergency.

My nut allergy is my thing. Not because I ever wanted it to be, but because it’s an important part of my life. And it could have been anything: an illness like diabetes, or an issue like anxiety, or a random fear of ants (shout-out to you myrmecophobics out there).

Because whether it’s literally life-threatening or something, well, a tad cray (I have a friend who will gag if you say a certain very boring and average word), what matters is that you accept your thing—and then own it.

And when someone else makes your thing their thing? That’s when things get interesting.

*Names have been changed.

This article originally appeared in the June/July 2016 issue of Girls' Life magazine.

by Suzie Winston | 1/24/2017