Today is my Day of the Goobers.

For decades an unregenerate peanut butter and strawberry jelly sandwich addict, I have developed adult-onset peanut allergy. The PB, like triffids uprooting themselves to pursue their former human captors, is taking revenge.

It is no comfort to learn from the Mayo Clinic that there are some 1.5 million others in the U.S. who face the same peril from goober peas.

Perhaps I'll be less intransigent after the hives, swelling and other symptoms from my last peanut encounter, abate.

As it is, I'm angry that this ambush has cost me more than one favored food, and may cost me still more. I learned "the hard way" that sunflower seeds are often processed with machinery that is used to process peants. Hungry for a PB&J, but not enough to die for it, I made a sunflower seed &J. The hives and dreary so on followed.

Now comes the full-press dietary reevaluation.

This is a dangerous malady. Among food allergies, it is probably the most deadly. Foods I have loved for a lifetime can no longer pass my lips. Indeed, most of the candy I prefer can no longer be safely rubbed on the back of my hand. I must quiz the waiter at restaurants, read carefully the labels on packaged foods. avoid kissing ladies who have recently dined on peanutty foods and eschew anything else about which I am uncertain.

True, my symptoms have thus far been somewhat short of death-dealing anaphylaxis. My ventures into hives, severe swelling, shortness of breath and dizziness are at least one full step, and maybe several, short of unconsciousness and death.

Yet I foresee a life of carrying everything required for good anaphylaxis first aid, and wearing a bracelent replete with information for emergency room personnel.

Failure to do so is irresponsible, even suicidal.

No one has to be my Dr. Miles Bennell, screaming "You're next!"

I know.

If this were "Invasion of the Body Snatchers", I'd be one who nearly nodded off, losing his life.

I didn't. I don't want anyone else to, either.