I’m starting to feel better. Dammit. For the past four weeks, I’ve had the mother of all colds. There were moments I was sure I was “patient zero” for some new shifting antigen super-virus engineered by the military, one that would eventually wipe out 99-percent of all life on the planet. If that’s true, those scientists better head back to the lab, because—like I said—I’m finally starting to kick this sucker.
I just wish that were a good thing.
The problem, see, is it turns out my girlfriend Annie is the best nurse since Florence Nightingale. Despite its ferocious tenacity, my cold never stood a chance against her gentle, healing ministrations.
From my first sniffle, Anne was there, orange juice in one hand, vitamin C in the other.
“You should drink plenty of fluids,” she said. “Get lots of rest.”
Now, being a manly man, and not a particularly bright one, I only drank fluids or rested when she was standing there monitoring my behavior. The moment she was out of the room, I dug out my iPad to watch hour after hour of Twilight Zone and Mystery Science Theater 3000 on Netflix. I stayed up late. I ate too much dairy. I ignored every message my body was—in an effort to stay alive—sending me. So naturally, I got sicker.
Eventually, I got really sick. The kind of sick that not only suggests bed rest, but demands it. My first choice at times like this is to curl into a fetal ball, pull the covers over my head, and wait patiently to die.
Anne would have none of that. She pushed the fluids, she made repeated trips to and from the kitchen, taking away empty bowls and glasses, returning with steaming bouillon and chicken soup. She trekked to the store for orange juice, cranberry juice, cold medicine, cough drops...anything she could think of that might, in my time of great distress, afford some small relief.
She laid cool washcloths across my fevered brow. She oohed. She awwed. In short, she babied me in ways I’ve not been babied since the days when I still wore diapers and became nervous if my “binky” was out of sight for more than a few seconds. (And no, this has not been recently.)
At first, I railed against Anne’s efforts, assuring her I would eventually get well, or that nature would take its course, I’d die, and Darwinists would be have one more talking point. But Anne kept at it anyway.
And in a surpassingly short time, I got used to the babying, grew to like it, even. I lay in bed, hour after hour, reading, watching TV, dorking around on Facebook, as all the while a beautiful blonde woman waited on me hand and foot. I’m guessing my male readers will have no problem understanding how this could become addictive in a hurry.
Now I’m feeling better. At first, I tried to hide this fact from Anne. I didn’t want the party to end. But she figured it out. Some elusive, insincere quality in my manufactured moans and groans gave me away, I guess. The orange juice dried up, the leftover chicken soup was packed away in the fridge. I was encouraged to bathe, dress myself, return to the land of the living.
It’s good to feel better, I suppose. But I have to admit, I’m kind of looking forward to flu season.
Mike Taylor’s new paperback, Looking at the Pint Half Full, is available at mtrealitycheck.com and in eReader format at Border’s, Barnes & Noble, and other online book sellers. Email the author at mtaylore325@gmail.com.
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