This week folks, I got nothin’ but the flu

Usually, when I sit down to write this column, I have at least a kernel of an idea as to subject matter in the back of my mind somewhere. It generally develops as I go along and often changes direction entirely, going off into tangents I had not previously considered.

But today I got nothin’. No ideas, no clever notions, no stories of unfortunate mishaps.

What I have instead is the flu. Or a cold. Or possibly some new flu-cold hybrid, featuring symptoms of both, with a few “new and improved” symptoms added specifically for my misery. Whatever it is, I no longer expect to live through it, so I’ll try to write fast, just in case.

It came on Sunday evening, and by Monday morning, I was a wreck.

Usually, I enjoy being sick, as long as I’m not too sick. A cold or slight fever means The Lovely Mrs. Taylor will cater to my needs in ways she would never consider were I well.

“Can I get you anything, dear?” are not words heard around the Taylor home unless someone’s laid low with illness. We are, as a rule, a hardy breed here and manage to get through life without being waited upon.

Illness mitigates that fact. If Mrs. T catches cold, I whip up a big pot of my homemade chicken soup, bring her extra blankets and run to the store for orange juice and ginger ale. I love her, but that’s not why I do this. I do this because I want her to feel obligated to baby me the next time I’m the sickie.

Quid pro quo, in its simplest form.

The only difference is, I don’t ask her to make homemade soup. Mrs. Taylor does not cook. Not well, anyway. I barely trust her to heat up the canned stuff. I didn’t marry her for her prowess in the kitchen.

But where was I? It’s hard to focus. My fever, which has to be right around 147 at the moment, is making me feel as sharp as … okay, think, there’s got to be a metaphor here somewhere … as sharp as … see what I mean? Nothin’.

I’m guessing the over-the-counter medication isn’t helping much, either. It’s the stuff you’re only supposed to take before bed, but it’s all I have in the house at the moment. If I had any heavy machinery, I wouldn’t be able to operate it right now.

Ah! Sick vs. too sick; that was the topic, I think.

Today, I am too sick to enjoy it. To make matters worse, Mrs. T’s gone to the office for the day, which means there’s nobody here to baby me properly. It’s only 10 a.m. and she’s already sent a couple e-mails enquiring as to my health and/or alive/dead status. But it’s just not the same as having her here to place cool washcloths on my forehead and murmur things like “poor baby” and “aww.”

Usually, when I write this column, I try to think of something clever for the last paragraph; something to tie everything into a neat, little package before I ship it off to my editor.

Sorry, folks, I still got nothin’.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or metaphors that work with “as sharp as a…”, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.