Got my flu shot a couple of weeks ago. It seems to have worked somewhat, in that the influenza virus currently cavorting through my system is possibly the wimpiest one I’ve ever encountered. I’ve got the general achiness, alternating bouts of chills and fever, and slight disassociative state that characterizes the disease, but they are merely debilitating, slowing me down rather than knocking me out on the couch for three days straight as in years past–not that I’ve had much recent experience with flu. The last time I remember suffering through it was 1985, when it caused me to miss the riot in Chapel Hill the night the drinking was raised to 21. I was really looking forward to that riot, too.
Ngnat and Scotty M have responded to my infection with the grippe by piling toy after toy on the couch I’m laid out on. I can barely move for the masses of Hot Wheels and Polly Pocket detritus around me. My right ear is adorned with a tiny plastic hot dog, which Scotty M placed there with the solemn promise that it would make me feel better.
Wife has responded by wondering aloud how we’re going to get the Christmas tree into the house, as if I’m intentionally slacking in my duties to the family. After all, If I can move, I should be able haul around a nine foot tree with no problem–and should I not desire to do so, it is the fault of my general Scrooge-like nature rather than flu cooties.
She’s a hard, hard woman. Right now my plan is to haul in the damn tree, then collapse on the couch, teeth chattering and shaking with chill. If all goes well, I should be able to look forward to some guilt-induced hand and footing on her part for the rest of the weekend.
Life is good, or rather–it will be soon. It’s probably the hot dog.
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