Tales of Wit and Charm…

This week’s “The Dating Years.”

A Spoonful of Cute Boy Helps the Medicine Go Down

It’s difficult to date when you’re couch ridden due to a horrendous cross between SARS and Bird Flu.

Being sick is always miserable. Although, if I had caught the sickness from a wild night of hot sex, the reflection period would have at least somewhat lessened the misery. Sadly, I don’t have that luxury–there was no hot night involved.

After a day of being sick I called my doctor and when he wasn’t able to see me that day, I headed to the InstaCare in hopes of finding some sort of medical relief. When I walked in I realized I was in for quite a wait. Half the city had taken up residence in the waiting room. I found a spot, grabbed a book out of my bag, and settled in for the long wait. Twenty minutes in, a very hot, male newcomer took the empty blue cushioned seat across from me.

The InstaCare waiting room isn’t exactly the best environment for flirting. For me anyway, sex appeal isn’t at its prime when accompanied with mucus filled symphony of throat hacking. I made eye contact, smiled and said, “Welcome to Hell.” He laughed and we both went back to our respective reading materials. He got cuter as the wait went on. Before I had a chance to make another attempt at conversation his name was called and he went back to see a doctor. I vowed to talk to him if we had the chance again.

Before long, my name was called and I made my way back to a somewhat sterile room. I was handed a robe and told to take my top off so the doctor could listen to my lungs. I peeled off my shirt and sweater, donned the robe, and waited.

After the doctor made his two-minute appearance, I was getting dressed when I heard the cute boy’s voice at the nurses’ station. I threw on my shirt and sweater, grabbed my bag and hurried out. He was still at the nurse’s station waiting for his paperwork. Score! I started walking towards him when I head someone calling my name behind me. I turned in time to see the nurse waving my rattiest bright pink bra. “Sarah, you forgot something.” The cute boy looked up in time just to see the spectacle. He giggled as I turned bright red. I grabbed my bra, shoved it into my purse, and rushed out. Forget talking to the boy, what was the point? I was entirely too embarrassed.

Apparently cute boys are a dime a dozen at the local InstaCare. The last time I visited also resulted in a cute boy sighting. With the Petri dish valley of ours, another trip to the InstaCare is most definitely in my future.

I guess the cute boy factors into the silver lining somehow, making getting sick not quite as bad. Next time I will remember to wear a sexy, lacey, black bra to the InstaCare. Perhaps next time my results will differ.

You’d think Daisy would be thrilled I’m feeling better so she doesn’t have to share the couch, but here she is on my side of the couch waiting to lay by me. All together now… “ahhhhh.” Really, I think she just likes watching Gilmore Girls, but then who doesn’t?

The last time I felt this horrible was when I had kidney stones three years ago and spent Christmas in the ICU. Which, in hindsight, wasn’t all that bad. Midge brought movies and cuddled in bed with me. The pain was somewhat tolerable with a Morphine drip. However, once I started seeing the face of Jesus in the wallpaper I made them take it out. Talk about ruining a good time.

My body has never handled germs of any kind very well. I’m a chronic puker. When I was in high school a doctor accused me of being bulimic when, after a case of Mono, I couldn’t stop throwing up for weeks. My mother in her prime mama bear days got angry with the doctor and reminded him I’ve had a weak stomach since I was a very tiny baby. As a nurse, she was always very involved when I was sick. Perhaps that’s why, at 32, the minute I feel sick I want my mom taking care of me. And if I asked she’d drop everything and drive two hours to get here, just to rub my back or get me a drink of Gatorade. Since it’s my dad’s birthday tomorrow I’m not asking her to drive up. After all, he only has a birthday every four years.

What I thought was a cold is a full-fledged case of the bird flu—self-diagnosed of course. Sure, I get flu symptoms with a minor headache, but this is beyond ridiculous. I can’t even keep a sip of water down. Not to mention, every part of my body hurts, even my eyebrows. Which is all very inconvenient given that I had a math midterm tonight and a Lost party to attend.

I promised my mom if I wasn’t feeling better tomorrow I’d go in and have then hydrate me with an IV, but until then I’m going to lay on the couch, continue to whine, watch trash TV and remind myself over and over what the silver lining of being sick is…

SKINNY JEANS!

Obviously, I’m going to look really good after this “diet” helps me fit back into them.

I’m sick, and it’s all Ben’s fault. I’ve not had a cold or flu all winter. With the small exception of food poisoning inflicted by Arlo, I’ve been completely healthy.

Like a good sister I picked Ben up from the airport Sunday and gave him a ride home. He coughed the entire time and spewed his disgusting boy germs all over my car.

I started feeling gross yesterday, and then woke up this morning with a fever and coughing so hard I puked. Awesome. It was obvious I was Instacare bound. Ben called to see which one I was going to so we could meet there. The jerk is still sick. I told him where to go, but he never showed. Is he OK? Who cares. Part of me was hoping he had overdosed on NyQuil. Not because I don’t love him, but because he totally deserves it.

After waiting an hour in the lobby, my name was finally called–music to my insanely clogged ears. Another wait in the room and finally a doctor arrives. And by doctor I mean Doogie Fucking Howser, MD. Young doctors before have seen me but this was ridiculous—he looked like he was in high school.

“Bad news, Sarah. Looks like you don’t have strep throat.”

“Um, why would that be bad news? I didn’t really want it.”

“Strep we could have treated. This particular funk you’ve got can’t be treated. I can, however, give you a prescription of codeine pills to ease the pain a bit.”

“Pills? Can’t I just get some cough syrup? I think with my throat this swollen I won’t be able to swallow pills.”

“Unfortunately there’s a shortage on codeine syrup, so pills will have to do. Try crushing them in ice cream.”

“Ohhhh, is that what your mom does, too?”

He glared at me. I’m guessing he gets wisecracks about his age all the time. Quite honestly, I was just excited at the prospect of ice cream. I swore off ice cream a few months ago and was very much looking forward to having a reason to buy some.

“Go home, load up and get as much sleep as possible. You should feel better in a few days.”

Maybe having a young doctor isn’t all that bad. Loading up sounds just like what I need. And who am I to defy a doctor’s orders? Exactly.

I feel ill today—on the verge of puking every other second. Yet, I still made it to classes and to work. I’m very proud of my current Supergirl status, though I’d much rather be curled up in bed with someone taking care of me. Only there isn’t a someone in my life right now. Daisy with her lack of opposable thumbs is completely useless.

I can’t decide if I ate something bad, or if I’m still sick over yesterday’s lunch conversation with my mom:

Mom: “Do you want my tomatoes?”
Sarah: “No thank you. They are good for the prostate, but my non-existent one is fine at the moment.”
M: “Oh, they are? I’ll have to tell your dad. When I rolled over in bed….”
S: “MOM!! Please stop. I do not want to hear this. No way, no how. Just stop!”
M: “What? Anyway…”
S: “Mom, I’m not kidding. I’ll leave.”
M: “As I was saying…”

(At this point I was curled up in fetus position underneath the table. Okay that part isn’t true, but I did briefly consider it.)

M: “When I rolled over in bed I noticed a book on your dad’s side of the table. It was a prostate health book. See, it wasn’t that bad. You’re so weird about things.”
S: “Remind me why I meet you for lunch?”
M: “Because I pay.”

I know it’s selfish, but I just don’t want to hear this stuff. It was bad enough having my mom and cousin, both nurses, discussing labor and delivery. I can only assume they were trying to discourage the birth of my hypothetical illegitimate child.