Friday afternoon at about 1530, I was hit by what can only be called a solid wall of ugh. I think it was brick ugh, perhaps coated on one side with titanium and on the other with lead. With little lead weights hanging down from strings of ugh at the top of the wall. Little lead weights filled with ugh that would bonk me on the head now and then and make me either sit down suddenly or run for the bathroom.
I spent Friday night ransacking my kitchen cabinet for drugs. (Note: don't keep drugs in the bathroom. The heat and humidity aren't good for them.) I think I took two allergy pills, a couple of decongestants, a Mucinex, perhaps a Dramamine (I don't really recall), a whole lot of zinc, some ibuprofen, and a couple of things from the bottom of my purse that, upon reflection, might've actually been Dentyne Ice gum covered with lint. Anyway, it seemed like a good idea at the time. And then I slept all night, in two-hour stretches each time.
I lathered, rinsed, and repeated all day yesterday, washing up on the shore at about 2030, convinced I would have to go to the doctor today, I felt so wretched. Then Chef Boy showed up, bearing a bottle of bourbon.
Say what you will about alcohol use and the immune system: When the Evil Exploding Butt Syndrome has stopped and you're dealing with nothing more than a nasty head cold, a couple of very powerful hot whiskeys with lemon can do a lot of good. I'm not sure that continuing the application of bourbon is all that good an idea; Chef Boy took a leaf from the old Johnny Walker ad, in which the influenza bug is repelled by the sight of cheap Scotch, and continued medical self-administration. He's not feeling nearly as good as I am today.
I'm feeling so good, in fact, that I'm bored. I'm not well enough to clean house, but not sick enough to sleep any more. I don't have cable. I've read the latest issue of "BARK" twice and gone through all my old books to see if there's anything I don't really remember that well. I suppose I could finish up some pre-Beloved-Sister's-Wedding shopping, but I don't feel well enough for that, either.
I think what I'll do instead is draw up and fabricate an ugh-proof suit to wear all winter long. That way, when the one person on the floor who handles every chart and piece of paper in the department comes in sick again, and when little Billy is garking in every available bathroom, I will stay well.
Or maybe I'll just carry around a bottle of Johnny.
Never touch your face at work. Never. Also, wash hands both before and after using the bathroom. Think nothing of raising the seat and doing a hover-pee. Wipe down the phone before you use it, or better yet learn to use it on speaker. And never, ever, touch your own face. That's my mojo, and thus far, it has worked. (Seven years since the paranoia- err-system was devised.)
ReplyDeleteNever touch face, check. Turn lights on and off with pen, check. Wipe down all surfaces with killer wipes, check. Wash hands before and after, check. Hover pee? No way in heck can I manage that without being really gross.
ReplyDeleteWhat I can't figure out is that I've managed so far to avoid the nastier stuff that's come my way (save for one bout with the flu, which sucked rocks) but I'm floored by colds.
I guess that bodes well for my being one of the ragged survivors scavenging for food after the next pandemic.