The Rumors of My Demise Have Been Mostly Accurate

What I learned from my trip to Jacksonville, Florida is that when you take a vacation in the winter, when you come home you might die.

It all started on my flight back to Portland. My sister Tamar and me had stayed up all night and she drove me to the airport early. I slept (read: napped with waking up every ten minutes to make sure no one was stealing my bags that I had wrapped my body around) in a rocking chair for an hour and a half waiting for the security gate to open. When it did open I noticed that there were mini-couches right next to the rocking chairs that would have been more comfortable.

I went through security and dug into the bag of snacks Tamar had packed for me. After eating a couple of eggs I went back to the napatory position until the gate opened. While staying up all night was probably not the best idea in the world, when I realized I was on a little puddle jumper into Houston I was so glad that I was too tired to be upset by the turbulence. Once in Houston, I ate some tuna-egg salad Tamar had made with homemade mayo and found a corner to nap in.

That was the end.

From the moment I boarded the plane all I could do was pray to get to Portland without vomiting.

Apparently, homemade mayo has to remain refrigerated in order to not poison you. Luckily, the prayer worked, but only just. As soon as we got to Portland I found the bathroom and without getting too graphic, I was turned inside out.

I got home and lay down on the floor for the next 36 hours getting up only to use the bathroom. I thought I would die and at some points wished it.

My stomach settled, I settled into the weekend and my amazingly doubled-in-size boobs. That’s right, I was getting close to my semi-annual period. I can tell you that while my weekend was voluptuous it was also mildly cranky (you take the good you take the bad you take them both…).

Monday night I went to improv rehearsal and after a resounding samurai warmup, I never quite gained back my voice. At work the next day I kept getting a scratchy throat. That night on my way home from The Moth I realized that yes. I was sick. Again. For the ninth time. Since September.

Wednesday morning I woke up, drove to work, grabbed my laptop and went home to die.I made it to my meetings and slept the rest of the day through fevers that ranged from 101 – 103. Mind you, I normally run at 96.8 – 97.2 (whereas 98.6 is considered normal). So, these were some pretty high fevers for me. Andrew, who has had a surprising amount of practice at it this year, nursed me well. Although I was sick as a dog (read: watching HGTV) I had an insatiable appetite. They say, “feed a cold, starve a fever.” For me it was feed a flu and a fever and hope that death will soon appear.

Normally, when I am sick I require a little bit of medicine and not much else. I will go for runs to prove I am not actually sick and do a bunch of other things that drive Andrew crazy. This time, however, I didn’t even have the energy to fight Andrew about how sick I “wasn’t” and, every time I tried I broke into fever tears. I was able to parlay those into forcing Andrew to watch the movie Clue with me. It was his first time watching it (ridiculous, I know – when I found out I was so upset, flames, flames on the side of my face…)

Also normally, when I am sick Andrew is soon to follow. But this time it was the flu. Andrew had a flu shot in December. He did not get sick. As such, his attention and pity towards me would have almost been sweet if it wasn’t tinged with smugness once he realized he would not get sick.

It is now Sunday. I have been sick since Tuesday evening. I am finally feeling like I can do a 10k (though I shouldn’t), but first – I need an intervention. I don’t know how I am going to manage to pull myself away from Canadians doing home improvement on HGTV.

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