On traveling with the flu
Written on December 30, 2015, in the bathroom of the Hyatt, Bloomington, IND
Last night, I fell asleep shivering, convinced I would never be warm again. This, after a day of traveling from PA to IND: waking at 3:45am to make the 6am flight to Chicago, delayed, then sprinting to make the connecting flight. If you haven't seen two asthmatics run down a concourse, one with both shoes untied, the other gripping an inhaler, then you haven't see my pitch for a new holiday classic comedy. Once at the hotel, I went to bed early, and immediately realized I was ill. My husband piled blankets on me, and I fell asleep between shivers.
I awoke at 1:30am with a pain in my stomach brought on, perhaps, from doing what travelers too often do: eating ery little in transit and then overcompensating upon arrival. I ate like a woman preparing for a half-marathon in a culture where one's capacity to be loved is measured by caloric intake. I lay there, full of carbs and regret, at least not shivering any longer. Instead I was hot, my feet generating enough heat to brand my footprint into a herd of cattle. Which, by the way, I'd use as my mark were I to take up ranching.
I stripped off my socks and held my belly, trying not to wake my partner, yet secretly hoping he'd awake, soothe me, and tell me that this too shall pass, like the chili dog with extra onions I foolishly downed at a Reading Philis game. In that state, I imagined that the gurgling noises coming from my stomach were my intestinal track laughing, mocking my bad decisions: ga ga ga oy oy oy.
I've reached the end of the hotel stationary. Pray for me.
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Oh, my. That's me.