Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Sicko
Until I moved to Chicago, I swear to God I almost never got sick. Okay, there was a projectile vomiting incident in second grade that completely ruined Jill Adams's Mother's Day card and the time in fourth grade I got sent home by a litigation-fearing school nurse because I had cut my finger, but I was a pretty healthy kid. In college I can only remember one major illness -- a bout with bronchitis that had me coughing up unusual things and spending sleepless nights wishing there were something good on cable -- and I was healthy all through law school, a time when one really ought by rights to be visited with Biblical plagues. My mother refers to it as my "strong German constitution," although I remind her that the German Constitution can be readily amended by a 2/3 vote of parliament, and is therefore hardly "strong."
But concerns of European Federalism aside, I am sick. Again. Last night I had chills so bad it was all I could do to lie in my bed under twelve layers of blankets and watch Lucy Camden deliver her baby on Seventh Heaven. Then by the time Everwood came on, and Amy's dreams of being a ballerina were cruelly crushed, I was so hot I had to strip down and pray for some force to magically levitate me above the covers. I ended up giving up on the Real World/Road Rules Battle of the Sexes entirely, and simply falling into a weird dream state where I was somehow on the UN Security Council but unable to address the General Assembly due to a lack of fluids in my body. Which was too bad, because I really had some good ideas.
Today is better, by which I mean I am at least on my feet and borderline rational. But seriously, I can't keep doing this. Life is not meant to be lived under a huge pile of blankets.
Until I moved to Chicago, I swear to God I almost never got sick. Okay, there was a projectile vomiting incident in second grade that completely ruined Jill Adams's Mother's Day card and the time in fourth grade I got sent home by a litigation-fearing school nurse because I had cut my finger, but I was a pretty healthy kid. In college I can only remember one major illness -- a bout with bronchitis that had me coughing up unusual things and spending sleepless nights wishing there were something good on cable -- and I was healthy all through law school, a time when one really ought by rights to be visited with Biblical plagues. My mother refers to it as my "strong German constitution," although I remind her that the German Constitution can be readily amended by a 2/3 vote of parliament, and is therefore hardly "strong."
But concerns of European Federalism aside, I am sick. Again. Last night I had chills so bad it was all I could do to lie in my bed under twelve layers of blankets and watch Lucy Camden deliver her baby on Seventh Heaven. Then by the time Everwood came on, and Amy's dreams of being a ballerina were cruelly crushed, I was so hot I had to strip down and pray for some force to magically levitate me above the covers. I ended up giving up on the Real World/Road Rules Battle of the Sexes entirely, and simply falling into a weird dream state where I was somehow on the UN Security Council but unable to address the General Assembly due to a lack of fluids in my body. Which was too bad, because I really had some good ideas.
Today is better, by which I mean I am at least on my feet and borderline rational. But seriously, I can't keep doing this. Life is not meant to be lived under a huge pile of blankets.
