Sorry for the lack of post yesterday, but I was sick as the proverbial dog, and stayed home reading about the glory days of grand resorts and alternately making very hurried trips to the bathroom.
This is the first time in years we’ve had a “real” winter, complete with multiple snowfalls and weeks on end with no temperatures above freezing. In the dark ages of the 1970s, when I had to walk uphill barefoot through six-foot snowdrifts to school, this sort of weather wasn’t uncommon. Mind you, I was a child at the time, and children don’t notice such things as much. Also, I was probably rendered insulated and immobile by six layers of clothing, those godawful snow pants that were stiffer than concrete, and Wonder Bread wrappers between shoes and snow boots (they made the boots easier to take off).
In childhood both cold and its resulting illnesses were a little easier to take. Cold was fun, especially when it involved snow. Now snow is something that makes you think, “Ooh, pretty,” for about ten seconds and, “Oh Jesus, how am I ever going to get to work?” for the next two hours. Being sick as a kid wasn’t too bad either; other than the painful part. Mom doted on you; you got to stay home from school and watch TV and read comic books, and as long as you didn’t have the Throw-Up Disease you probably got to eat ice cream and Jell-O.
Yesterday I had the Throw-Up Disease. This is the nameless virus that infected you once every winter as a child and now only occasionally manifests itself. Somehow even nausea was easier to bear as a child. You’d think that after years of boozy parties and painful mornings after that I’d be used to the whole thing, but I’m not. After the onset of the Throw-Up Disease I turn into a damp, prickly ball of irritated goo. Jell-O doesn’t help and ice cream won’t stay down. You can’t even concentrate on reading comic books, because your mouth feels like cat hairballs and your stomach is bent on reliving last summer’s roller coaster rides. Daytime TV is even worse than it was in the ’70s. And you can’t even enjoy the fact that you get the day off; if you have a real job you worry that it’s not getting done. If you have a fake job (i.e., temping) you worry that you’re not getting paid for this torturous day off.
If there’s any consolation, it’s that the malady doesn’t seem to last as long as it used to. By four in the afternoon, I was perky and back to normal levels of Jell-O consumption.
By seven-thirty, I was ready for a Manhattan.
This is the first time in years we’ve had a “real” winter, complete with multiple snowfalls and weeks on end with no temperatures above freezing. In the dark ages of the 1970s, when I had to walk uphill barefoot through six-foot snowdrifts to school, this sort of weather wasn’t uncommon. Mind you, I was a child at the time, and children don’t notice such things as much. Also, I was probably rendered insulated and immobile by six layers of clothing, those godawful snow pants that were stiffer than concrete, and Wonder Bread wrappers between shoes and snow boots (they made the boots easier to take off).
In childhood both cold and its resulting illnesses were a little easier to take. Cold was fun, especially when it involved snow. Now snow is something that makes you think, “Ooh, pretty,” for about ten seconds and, “Oh Jesus, how am I ever going to get to work?” for the next two hours. Being sick as a kid wasn’t too bad either; other than the painful part. Mom doted on you; you got to stay home from school and watch TV and read comic books, and as long as you didn’t have the Throw-Up Disease you probably got to eat ice cream and Jell-O.
Yesterday I had the Throw-Up Disease. This is the nameless virus that infected you once every winter as a child and now only occasionally manifests itself. Somehow even nausea was easier to bear as a child. You’d think that after years of boozy parties and painful mornings after that I’d be used to the whole thing, but I’m not. After the onset of the Throw-Up Disease I turn into a damp, prickly ball of irritated goo. Jell-O doesn’t help and ice cream won’t stay down. You can’t even concentrate on reading comic books, because your mouth feels like cat hairballs and your stomach is bent on reliving last summer’s roller coaster rides. Daytime TV is even worse than it was in the ’70s. And you can’t even enjoy the fact that you get the day off; if you have a real job you worry that it’s not getting done. If you have a fake job (i.e., temping) you worry that you’re not getting paid for this torturous day off.
If there’s any consolation, it’s that the malady doesn’t seem to last as long as it used to. By four in the afternoon, I was perky and back to normal levels of Jell-O consumption.
By seven-thirty, I was ready for a Manhattan.
posted by Daniel | 4:29 PM
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