First I had spring fever. And then I got a rash.

Contact with poison ivy will do that to people — even the ones who think they can outsmart the plant by covering every inch of skin before dealing with it.

Despite my vigilance, I caught it.

I bring this up because a friend recently asked about my health.

I knocked on wood (as in my desk, which is made of wood or something similar — you never can really tell nowadays), and said it was good. Not wanting to jinx myself by claiming to be perfectly healthy, I mentioned the poison ivy rash.

After all, that stuff was itching me as I responded.

Normally I avoid the creeping (and creepy) vine, perhaps even more than I avoid telemarketing calls. But this time, it beckoned me.

There it was, all wrapped around a birch tree that had toppled in the yard during a recent ice storm. No leaves, mind you, but the amount of shoots and sprouts loomed larger than Rhode Island.

“Here we are! You see us every time you look out your window,” those twisted bullies taunted.

So when the Antarctica-sized glaciers eventually melted and a springlike day arrived in early January, I snipped those shoots one by one.

I was covered from head to toe. Jacket. Long sleeves. Hood. Gloves. Heck, I even tucked my pants into my socks! A fashion faux pas, for sure, but sometimes you have to sacrifice.

A neighbor saw me outside and questioned what I was doing.

“Getting rid of this ivy,” I said, as I motioned to it with a bright yellow pair of kitchen gloves.

He said I was crazy. I said I was determined.

After some chopping, the tangled mess was gone. I used “poison ivy wipes” and “poison ivy soap” — even though I knew I hadn’t touched so much as a speck of the stuff. Those post-ivy treatments smelled worse than garbage in July, but they were extra reassurance against the ivy oils.

Must have been snake oil because two days later, a small spot appeared on my wrist. It was itchy, but as I told my friend, it could be worse. I was healthy!

Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. Despite knocking on wood a second time, I definitely jinxed myself.

Cases in point:

Shortly after claiming good health (barring minor rash), I was feeding the fireplace and dropped a log on my ankle. The resulting swelling meant that I would skip a walk that I had planned and go for a much-needed haircut. The stylist suggested “curtain bangs.” Not being able to Google “curtain bangs” and wanting to get out of there ASAP, I said yes to this whimsical-sounding trend.

Unfortunately, the length of them obscures the vision in my right eye. So if you see someone walking straight into a wall, say hello — it would be nice to meet you.

I then got a splinter from a different log. It took hours of prodding with a needle to remove, and thus, has altered the print of my index finger. Here’s hoping that I don’t get kidnapped.

After falling log and deep splinter incidents, ivy rash would hit my other arm. Then it would travel to my leg, my back and my stomach. Not wanting to give up, it eventually checked off “My Face” from its “Places to Spread” list. Weeks later, it was still hanging on, crawling here, there and everywhere.

It was a nagging reminder of the afternoon I had squeezed the life out of the Mother Poison Ivy plant.

My immune system and I gave up fighting.

We made a call and scored some drugs (well, a few steroids through a telehealth appointment).

And at last, the rash eventually loosened its grip.

I’m not going to end this with a comment about my health. I’d have to venture outside to find an oak, maple or birch to knock on and it’s too cold for that.

Instead I’ll sign off with a joke my buddy Paul came up with. Laughter, as they say, is the best medicine:

Q: Did you hear about the guy who bought low budget plant based detergent?

A: He got poison ivy.