I don’t like being sick. I suspect most of you are with me on this one. I like to relax, but only when it’s my choice. Bed rest when you feel like death on dung is not near as fun.
Getting a head cold is such an incredible downer. My colds always announce their arrival with an early morning, paper-cut-like, sore throat. From there, I slide into the land of long-suffering snot. I drag around the house with my jaw scraping the floor, gasping for air. The hardware I normally use to breathe, namely my nose, is too busy to do its job. While I’m forcefully blowing into scratchy toilet paper, those little booger babies are working hard to replenish my supply of green goo.
The next time I get a cold, I’m going to conduct an experiment and not blow at all. If I stop blowing, will they stop making green goo? My experience tells me that blowing my nose doesn’t achieve my desired goal. I empty it, it fills back up. The cycle repeats itself. I end up with a mountain of moist bacterial cultures, a glistening, raw, flaming red moustache and the same plugged honker. Isn’t the definition of insanity doing something over and over and expecting different results? Aw, who am I kidding? I don’t think I could stop blowing, even if I wanted to. It would be like going on a diet. I’d last about an hour and I’d have to go on a blowing binge. Besides, when we’re in trouble, our first instinct is to do something. Blowing my head off seems to suit the circumstances.
I’d rather have the stomach flu than a cold. The stomach flu is more intense, but usually shorter in duration. It’s a near death experience without the bright light and peaceful feelings. The worst part has to be hanging around by the toilet for hours. A BIG bowl solves that problem, but when you feel like someone is stirring up your insides and you’re no longer living with mom, crawling back and forth to rinse out a bowl is inconceivable.
I’ve suffered through nights of camping out on the bathroom floor. In between the retching, I lay my head down and call out to God for help. I regret the man-sized chips and salsa I ate the night before. I’m thinkin’ I should chew. I’m wondering why lumps going down are so much more pleasant. Puking is so unappetizing; the psychedelic colors, the gruesome flavor combos, the hunks, chunks, and strings of things make me want to give up food for a whole day. When the ordeal is finally finished, my mouth reeks like a sewer and my hair clings attractively in moist tendrils to the residual bile on my cheeks. I drag myself back to bed, too exhausted to care.
My husband once got sick after inhaling a beef and onion pizza. He has a booming laugh and people in auditoriums have exited to tell us they knew he was in the house. They’ve never heard him spew! My two-year-old daughter ran down the stairs and hid in a corner, as if she was participating in a fire drill.
Over the din, I called out, “What’s wrong, honey?”
“Daddy’s going to spit on me,” she cried. I almost crouched down next to her.
I’ve been fortunate. I haven’t experienced chronic illness and for those of you who have, I empathize. I admire you who battle cancer or other such diseases. Watching strength grow from weakness is an honor and privilege. I’ve congratulated many a lopsided lady patient for surviving breast cancer. I hope I’d be up to the challenge. I’m such a wimp even when it comes to mildly bad feelings. After a bout of sickness, I usually endeavor to take better care of myself, but my exercise efforts are minimal and junk food is constantly wooing me. My uncle, who smokes, says you have to die of something. I’d be okay dying with a slice of pizza in my hand. I just don’t want them to find me next to the toilet. 😉
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infomercial’s hype and bought videos that make me feel foolish, look stupid, and want to stop. I purchased one plastic contraption where the only exercise I got out of it was kicking it to the curb on garbage day. I’ve done the dusty stationary bike, those monotonous aerobics, the funny breathing exercises,the tedious weight lifting routines and the lie down and trim down Pilates. (I’ll admit I enjoyed the lying down part.) I wanted to see if he had anything new to say, any wisdom to impart that would inspire and motivate me to take better care of my body. What was I thinking? He’s a personal trainer. It’s in his best interest to tell us that there is no mind game, no pill that eats up fat cells like Pac-Man, no food that will release the stores of chub we’ve been self-consciously hugging. The success of his business depends on the premise that extreme physical exercise supervised by a glowing Adonis who eats hamburgers wrapped in lettuce (a travesty) is our only hope of becoming the Jennifer Aniston we were meant to be.
I put the big guns to work. I kneaded, pressed, and patted it. I massaged it with all the pizza love I had in me and, if you’ve seen my wedding cake, you know I have some formidable pizza love. It remained on the cutting board, a cold, unyielding lump the color of death. Even the rolling pin hardly put a dent in it. Meanwhile, the time was fast approaching when my big husband would bound through the door, growling like a hungry bear. I began to get desperate and a bit silly with exhaustion. Why not? I thought to myself. Nothing else I’ve tried has worked. I whipped that inflexible blob into the air, tossing it just like I’d seen elderly, Italian gentlemen with moustachios do it. I whooped and hooted and tossed, delirious, insane, no longer caring about the time or that what I was doing was making no difference in the dough at all. The difference it made was in me. It released the tension I was feeling. It melted away the frustration.
