Sometimes we recognize with immediacy what we are suited for, and other times we are shown with magnificent subtlety what suits us not.

Two weeks ago, I subjected myself to an annoying, five-day long allergy patch test in central London. I didn’t know that the process would be so involved, so I was taken aback when the dermatologist set to affixing almost 100 substances to my back. I could neither shower nor conduct any kind of physical training for the next five days. This, according to the doctor, was the best way to determine what was making my skin angry.

“Often we never figure out the source of a reaction.”

The dermatologist uttered this while finishing the application process. She smoothed on extra tape to account for the unseasonably hot summer we were having. As I stood there topless and compliant, I suddenly felt a stab of ironic annoyance. Sure, humans are exposed to thousands of stimuli every day—I really shouldn’t have been disappointed to hear that the offending compound would not be one of the substances taped between my shoulder blades.

The many people, places, and things provide our brains with feedback on constant loops of varying speeds. Examples: I love ice cream, and I knew this from the moment I tasted my first spoonful in childhood. While visiting friends on their farm located in the interior of Australia, I quickly discovered that the Aussie versions suit me just as well. The greater aspects of life on the farm, however, I am slowly but surely finding that this doesn’t suit me as well.

“Megan, do you want to go and ….?”

I leave the end of that phrase in ellipses because in this country, I understand about 75% of what is being said.” But still, I’m a newcomer and a grateful guest on this farm. I agreed to join my host and friend as they embarked on the uncertain farming activity.

The mystery turned out to involve us climbing into a “buggy”—essentially a motorized vehicle that is used for tearing around this ranch of 7000 acres. Here we used it to move a bunch of unmotivated cows and calves from one massive paddock to the next. As we tore around the expansive and dusty patches, my driver hooped and hollered at the cows before making the occasional stop to collect rotting kangaroo carcass. I stayed in the cab.

“It’s because it’s not nice when they get caught up in the baler!” she called out to us over the rumble of the buggy. I didn’t look back into the tiny bed as the pungent bodies clunked into the bed. One of them disintegrated in mid-air as she tossed it in. “Oops!” she laughed as she stood there, “I was just left with the tail on that one!”

I’m a vegetarian on my best days. Vegan while at home. And squeamish for animal products on every day of the week.

The farm is a truly lovely place, and I have profound respect for the family that has worked so hard for five generations to maintain it. This is how real-life works, and their cattle feeds Australia, Japan, Europe and the United States. Our afternoon rumbling around was very interesting—but I soon came to the realization that the thing I appreciate most about the farm is the fireplace that was first lit at 8 o’clock. It goes nicely with the view outside of the Australian winter morning.

Of course, I’m not always so good at identifying what doesn’t suit me. Sometimes it takes a seemingly unreasonable amount of time before it dawns on me that I am not happy. I’ve lived through years of interaction with other humans or environments—endeavoring to give each “a fair shake”. Sometimes life metes out clues in an impressively subtle manner. We’re simply not suited for everything we come in contact with.

As for what my skin test revealed at the end of that week, the results were both useless and surprising. Formaldehyde and Balsam of Peru were the primary offenders. Formaldehyde, I equate with the pickling of all manner of just-dead things (not rotting kangaroos); while my beauty products may be loaded with it, I decided that I wouldn’t be throwing anything out. Instead I made a note to request that my shuffled off mortal coil never be soaked in formaldehyde. As for the Balsam of Peru diagnosis…. well, she had no literature on the stuff so I imagined that it was something sold by a snake oil salesman rolling through Passamaquoddy, Maine. When the patch test ordeal was all said and done, I left the doctor’s office with only a mental note to visit Peru next year.

I know all of this sounds like I am complaining. And I probably am. All told, I should be happy that my skin has not clean peeled clean off after all of the Sephora purchases and zip codes that I’ve exposed myself to in life. Even being here now on this ranch is an absolute gift—just as the people (toxic and nontoxic) that I have encountered over the years have their value. Everything, despite its potential for allergy, offers something in terms of teaching.

But I will offer up a public service announcement about the allergy patch test. At the end of the day it was a figurative pain in the ass, and not something that I’d suggest everyone run out and try. The world is simply too big, and the honest to God truth is that we are already living our lives as one big patch test every single day. No matter what anyone tells us, we are going to continue spending every moment messing with new variables in anticipation of some sort of response. This was me then, and this is me now on the ranch. At the moment my skin is reacting fine, but I’m all set in terms of rounding up any cattle tomorrow morning.