Little did I know ...
This Friday, last, I was feeling pretty good, it's true. After work, I went looking (in vain) throughout the downtown core for a Go set and (more fruitfully) for several different kinds of recharcheable batteries, along with a multi-size charger to go with them. I killed a little more time at a bookstore, then, made my way to my born-again favourite bar, Rhino's. I had a (meal; excellent, by the way) and nursed a pint while awaiting Vern's inevitably tardy arrival to keep me company.
I won't bore you with the tedious details, Gentle Readers. It was one of those nights of argument and reminiscence, of prejudice-reinforcement and dollops of fresh gossip to remind us we are still alive, not yet relegated to the eternal television glare of the old folks home. In short, old friends (joined towards the end by Vernski's remarkable partner) enjoying en spirited, if not revolutionary evening.
Yes, I got drunk. Drunk enough to forget my doggy-bag, which lack I bemoaned loudly Saturday morning, no matter that I had only cats for an audience.
But not that drunk.
Not drunk enough to explain even the mild headache; certainly not drunk enough to justify the lethargy that crepted up upon me as the day grew long, like some slow-moving virus gradullar taking control of my bronchial passages, shutting each one down in turn.
Long story short: Saturday was a day of unreasonable hangover and outrageously early bedtime.
Sunday was worse.
Sunday, by the time I'd finished with the brilliant Eleanor Wachtel (though I could remember not a word), I was having trouble breathing. Not physically, but the way one strives to catch one's breath when shocked by a photo of the Most Beautiful Woman in the World, of the Greatest Novel of All Time, or of the Funniest SCTV Skit From the 1st Two Seasons - in other words, the physcial was influencing - possibly corrupting - the sublime.
I could only think I was having some sort of delayed nicotine-fit, a physical addiction that had somehow slept through the withdrawal, only to be pushed awake like some junky Methuselah, begging for a fix 20 years after his body and forgotten its addiction.
I solved the problem with the last of my NiQuil and fought manfully for a good night's sleep following Sunday's Simpson's reprise.
Monday found me strangely awake and vital after only 10 hours' slumber.
I arose from bed, staggered to the front door and came away with the morning's paper, which I proceeded to read on my throne before finally doffing my bathrode and donning my torn shorts and threadbare t-shirt for a round of calisthenics.
I paid little attention to the band that was tightening around my skull, running from the back of my hear, round above the ears to meet like long lost cousings below my eye-sockets. The pressure was more or less what I'd felt the night before, but I realized now it had nothing for my brains wish for cheap dopamine; rather, it was the complaint of sinuses being squeezed tighter than a nun's thighs at a pagan bachanalia.
I made it in to work and wondered, vaguelly, at the fact I preceded everyone else by an hour.
Last week, 3 out of 7 of us missed some days. 2 of us were out all week.
One of them, Paul, made it in around 10. And left around 3:00. His email said he was off to the hospital, to be checked for pneumonia.
All of which is a very long, likely pointless way of saying ... I feel better than I did a week ago, but I fear that, tomorrow, I may feel worse.
I should have taken the damn government up on that free flu shot after all.