I had a Romancing the Stone moment this morning. I was working in my office and needed a tissue, but the box on the desk was empty. Then the box in the kitchen was empty, and in the downstairs powder room, there was no toilet paper left. All I needed was a piece of paper on the fridge that said, “Buy Tissue!” to complete the tableau. Unfortunately my fridge is not magnetic so I had to be content with getting a new box from the upstairs closet.
Man, I loved that movie as a kid. I’m sure I’ve seen it a dozen times, at least. Holland Taylor is THE BEST. “You practically puke on the escalator at Bloomingdales!” Awesome.
So in case you didn’t notice from the graphic discussion of tissue, I am sick, yet again. I am really having trouble accepting it this time. Back in the fall, I was so ridiculously healthy that I actually started to believe that my immune system had passed into a higher state of being. That I was moving forward like an X-Men mutant into a new dawn of the human race, where no one would get sick ever, and I was non-patient zero. Super! Lynn!
And now, since January, it’s been one thing after another, sick, sick, then more sick, with barely a break in between. Guess that new age of evolution has to wait a little longer. At least the kids have avoided the last couple of rounds (so far, knock wood).
Speaking of kids and sick and superhuman immune systems, do you remember that episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation where a bunch of kids on a foreign planet had been specially bred by their parents to have immune systems that not only kept the kids healthy, but also attacked germs floating in the air around them? Only it turned out that their overly aggressive immune systems also attacked the healthy cells of other people, so they eventually killed their own parents, and had to be quarantined on the planet alone?
Huh. Now that I type that all out I guess it’s not a bad thing to be Not Non-Patient Zero. I kind of like life and my kids and everything. You can learn valuable lessons from Science Fiction, apparently.
So I’m off now to curl up on the couch with some hibiscus tea and a big box of tissues and a video from the library. It’s Easter Parade, my all-time favourite musical, and I could write a whole post on the dreamy way Fred Astaire says “Baby…baby” while knocking on Judy Garland’s door at the end, so you’re lucky I’m too sick to sit upright at the computer any longer.
Ah, Fred…you certainly are no Mr. Mondo Dismo.