There is stuff coming out of my nose that doesn’t bear describing. But I’m going to describe it anyway, because I have nothing else to talk about. Also, this stuff is free. The blog, I mean. Not the stuff in my nose. Although that’s free, too, come to think of it.
I think a license plate fell out of my nose this morning, as well as an old-fashioned baby carriage, similar to the one featured in Rosemary’s Baby. Definitely 457 separate germs emerged from my nostrils today, and despite my best efforts, I’m sure I left them on every subway pole on the F train and every phone in my office. Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to. Mistakes were made.
Still. Since you’re going to be sick now, here’s what you can expect:
On the first day of your illness, you will awaken to find that your neck is stiff. Must be all that hooking up with unbelievably hot and unprincipled men, you’ll think. Man, I should have stuck with gymnastics! But no. What you’re actually experiencing is the first stage of tube neck. By day three, this condition will have gotten so bad that you’ll give people a dirty look when you see them eating solid food, and whenever someone calls you from behind, you’ll have to turn your whole body like an android.
By the afternoon of day one, your throat will be sore. By the evening, you’ll have body aches. By then, you’ll be pretty sure you’re sick. Because you are insane, it’s a good idea to consult the Internet as to the nature of your affliction. Decide that it’s either cholera, malaria or industrial strength gonorrhea — they kind they only get in Russian prisons anymore.
By the morning of day two, you will consider writing out your will. Your body hurts all over now, not just your skin and the muscles in your neck, but everywhere. Every muscle, sinew and joint screams. Flossing is out of the question. You cannot stand the idea of brushing your hair. You’ll slump to the bodega across the street from Tylenol and be really pissed when the local homeless guy looks at you in awe and forgets to ask you for change.
By the evening of day two, you’ll think about going to the hospital. You will not think about this because you’re a hypochondriac, or because you like to think up scenarios for your own amusement — although both these things are true. You will think about going to the hospital because you have the highest fever you’ve ever had, you’re pretty sure (well, as sure as you can be without actually owning a thermometer) and because it occurs to you that the one flaw in the whole “living alone” plan is that no one would know if you were to, say, die. At least you don’t have a cat. It would totally suck if Fluffy ate your face before the neighbors noticed the smell.
By the morning of day three, the sweats will have arrived, and your fever will drop. You’ll be happy to sweat. For one thing, it’s something you’re pretty sure dead people can’t do. Ergo, you must be alive. Thank God you took that one philosophy class in college, before you realized that all the boys in that department really did wear black turtlenecks and smoke Gauloises. I mean, really.
By day four, you’ll feel almost human — for nearly two hours at a stretch. After that, well, it’s hard to say. By afternoon, you’ll probably feel shitty again. At the very least, there’s a nap in your future. But maybe not! You could lie down for a nap, and then discover that what your body really wants is another (yet another) Vitamin Water and a short walk around the neighborhood. (Which will feel like a triathlon, BTW.)
Day five is tomorrow, and it better be better, is all I can say. I’ve been mouth-breathing so long, my teeth are turning yellow and if I don’t get back to the gym soon, there won’t be anything left to rescue.
Now give us a kiss. I swear, I’m not catching!