No, you’re not as loopy as I am. This isn’t a misprint. I still have the flu. Not a cold, officially the flu.
I’ve tried working every day through this but yesterday was the end. I barely made it home, walked and fed Murphy and huddled under the blankets before my fever spiked to 102.7, then after sweating it out overnight, down to 97 this morning. Right now I am the human version of global warming. If you think that’s a myth, take a look at my bathroom.
I’ll be the first to say it. I’m a tough guy and it takes a lot to bring me down. But today, I am officially taking…a sick day. That’s not easy for me to do.
This is the same guy, in my early 40’s, who was thrown from a horse, breaking three ribs, and 48 hours later went white water rafting for six hours. I can take pain. But this is something else. Your body is fighting you from the inside out. And there is no referee.
Aside from any current day Granny Clampetts, there are no set remedies. Rest and fluids. Well, that’s about it, right? We’re expected to lie around while our insides play a game of Russian Roulette. “Oh, maybe we’ll let him feel better today…no, give him another week, remember last week he ate McDonalds…remember what that did to us”.
At least winter is over. My mom, Lucille, aka The Big L, declared it so on Monday. The calendar said March 13th, but mom clearly confirmed, “March is Over”. Uh, mom, I’m looking out the window. I don’t quite get that March is over. I realize that time flies by as you’re getting older, but this is ridiculous. That’s mom, once you reach the 10th of any month, that month is basically over.
And mom can’t know of the severity of my flu. She’s 84 and I’m 57 but there is no statute of limitations on the mother-child illness situation. Just in a phone conversation she can sniff out a raspy throat, fatigue or decipher the difference between a throat clear and an actual cough. The over/under of, “Oh, my God” and, “You sound terrible” in our next conversation is set at seven.
Bet the over.
Trapped in a Happy Life 