Possible Causes of Chronic Hives

Wearing your nylon training suit to swim one mile of laps in the chlorinated city pool. Complaining to the lifeguards, after your first swim of the season in late May, that something must be wrong with the pool’s chemical solution, as you show them the bumps that are devouring your shoulders.

Watching your skin break out in bulbous patterns and wishing it was December, and not July, so that you had more clothes to cover your swelling limbs; knowing that if you were a more modest person, you’d just cover them anyway.

Drinking caffeine.

Drinking too many pints of local beer.

Eating bacon, even though you are friends with the farmer who raised the pig.

Drinking nonhomogenized milk from glass jugs. Knowing that to produce this milk for you, the mother cow had to be separated from her calves, and for this reason, your sister-in-law has stopped drinking cow’s milk. Feeling guilty that you don’t feel guilty enough about drinking the cow’s milk.

Breastfeeding your son at home, and on planes, and in parks, and at the gym, and on patios, and once, in an art museum underneath a Picasso painting.

The friction of your inflamed skin snuggling against your son’s warm, wriggly body.

One year of sleep deprivation and watching Instagram reels, where mothers in fashionable outfits sing about what an honor it is to sacrifice sleep for their baby, branding this time as their Sleepless Nights Era.

The possibility of more months or years of sleep deprivation.

Noticing faces in the hives and wondering if they were sent by some distant ancestor trying to send you a message, like, become a vegan.

Wearing underwear, according to your mom.

Having sex with your husband on the leather living room couch that you bought from the local thrift store.

Exercising too much in polyester clothes that shed their endocrine-disrupting microplastics into your vulnerable hair follicles.

Closing the bullet-proof, password-protected classroom door to your son’s daycare room when you drop him off in the morning.

Receiving hourly push notifications through the daycare’s app about each of his meals (which, you notice, contain too much processed meat), naps, and the consistency of his bowel movements.

Smiling politely when strangers say that your son looks like a miniature version of your husband, but maybe he has your chin.

Being stressed, according to your husband.

The possibility of having another child.

Watching the allergist shake his head sadly when you tell him you’ve been treating your hives with expired steroids from one of your mom’s friend’s long-dead dogs.

Hearing the allergist tell you that 80% of hives are impossible to diagnose, but he’ll run some blood tests, just in case you’re in the 20%. Seeing the bill for the tests that aren’t covered by insurance.

Noticing that October gets hotter every year, which leaves you searching for the perfect cotton-linen-merino wool blends to dress your son in.

Knowing you must wait seven months to swim laps again, and that when that day finally comes you’ll dive head-first into the pool’s cool pause, even if it means wearing your microplastic swimsuit and biking home as hives spread across your limbs, forcefully reminding you of the twining of pleasure and pain.