I returned to New York yesterday to find the city had decided to skip over May, June and July, going instead directly to August. Temperatures cracked 90 degrees and humidity shot through the roof. Every pollen-bearing plant in Manhattan, apparently in celebration of the unexpected burst of summer, put love in the air, pushing the pollen count to 11.7. On a scale of 12. Blissfully unaware of the pending pollenic disaster until mid-morning, I arrived at work unaided by Allegra 180 and was left sniffle-nosed and itchy-eyed for the balance of the day.

To be honest, allergy drugs are still fairly new to me. While I’ve doubtless had seasonal allergies for some time, I only realized so last year. I was watching TV when a spring Claritin ad came on: “Runny nose? Burning eyes? Coughing and sneezing?” Check. Check. Check and check. The symptoms kept rolling across the screen, and I had them all. The proverbial lightbulb appeared over my head. By God, I had allergies!

One might wonder why my father, a pulmonologist, had never noticed this, though I credit his lack of diagnosis to a sort of ‘shoemaker’s children going barefoot’ effect. Still, his ability to write prescriptions at the drop of a hat has since more than made up for his lack of speed on the draw. With fexofenadine hydrochloride running through my veins, I can see clearly and breathe freely. Medicine, I realize, is a wonderful thing.