I’m not sure exactly when I acquired this malady, but it’s been at least 10 years.

Most people have “tells,” as the poker players call them. They blink rapidly, sometimes they get fidgety, maybe sweat.

When I get into a stressful situation, I break out into hives.

Big, patchy, red hives.

That itch.

That I scratch.

It’s been a Benadryl morning.

The fact that I get covered in hives from stressful situations has provided many humorous, and awkward, moments through the years. At my old job, it served as a Homeland Security-style warning system — if the side of my face was red and splotchy, I was mildly irritated. If the scratch marks had gone down to my neck, we were approaching a problem. If both arms were bright pink, bumpy and covered in scratches, I was on the verge of a meltdown.

Several years back, I was wandering through a Wal-Mart in Elizabethtown, Ky., with my then-husband and his parents. By the time 30 minutes had passed, I had bright red, scratched up arms and I couldn’t stop scratching my face.

“What’s wrong with Jacque?” my mother-in law asked.

“She gets hives when she gets stressed out,” my husband replied.

My tell … exposed. Busted. Now she knew. Now every time I’d been at a family gathering and became covered in red splotches, she knew the truth. I was screwed. From that point forward, any family gathering required doubling-up on a preventative dose of Benadryl.

But today, the attack has seemed to wrap itself up quickly. I’m only a little warm now. My face is really the only thing left that itches. (It took me about an hour to finish this post in between various tasks, so I’m sure that helped.) I’m more or less exhausted now. And I could use some onion rings or mango habanero-flavored boneless wings from Buffalo Wild Wings. Or a nap.

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