Bed-ridden blues
WHEN I started writing this column last year, I decided to be as open and honest as possible about the things I do on Saturday nights. I wanted to share with you stories about my life here in Boston and hopefully do it in a way that would make you stop for a moment, think differently, maybe even laugh. That decision has proved quite a challenge. Talk about pressure - my life really isn't that interesting! Granted, over the past several months I've had some rather unique adventures. But you know what? Not every Saturday night can be a party. To prove this point - and to remain true to my plan of being open and honest - tonight I'm staying home, sick as a dog, and you get to hear about every booger-filled tissue and chest-rattling cough. I hope you're taking lots of vitamin C. Now pass me the Tylenol and let's get started.
When I'm sick, I like to be alone. I want to roll around in my disgustingness, skip a couple of showers, and work up a nice stench that would let a blind man know that he's standing close to something that's about to die. I figure if I feel like shit, I might as well look like shit, too. (It's like St. Patrick's Day: sure, you can run around telling everyone you're Irish, but if you're not wearing green underwear, you really aren't fully committed to the project.) For the past two days, I've been sporting the exact same outfit: a stretched-out blue T-shirt from a South Boston liquor store (riddled with food stains from both prior and post digestion) and a hideous pair of maroon flannel-pajama bottoms covered in miniature old English golfers. (C'mon, cut me some slack; they were a birthday gift from my five-year-old niece. I'm just glad they weren't available with feet.)
I've spent every hour of the past 48 in one of three places: my bed, my sofa, or my bathroom - often combining their uses rather than travel in between. It's amazing how easy it is to sleep on a bathroom floor when you feel like shit. Cold tile really has a way of taking the edge off just about any fever - and those hard-to-clean lower areas of a toilet (now at eye-level) really provide "inspiration" when you need to get sick.
So that's it. There's really not much else to tell. I ate a little, slept a lot, and occasionally talked to myself (an enjoyable side effect when a belly full of meds is paired with a 102-degree fever). You're more than welcome to stick around. I'm planning to watch my ninth straight episode of Man vs. Wild, but I'll understand if you don't care to join me. I'm probably highly contagious and to be honest, the house is starting to smell like cheese and old gym socks. I doubt this time I made you think, but hopefully I got you to laugh. I mean, look at these ridiculous pajama bottoms. If I weren't so afraid I'd puke on myself, I'd probably be laughing, too. @
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