Okay, so it's a little after Christmas, I'm aware, but in my line of work the cold and flu season is just about never-ending so its always "the season." Thankfully, I had two weeks off around Christmas, which is usually an ideal time to hide away from all germs and cocoon myself in my apartment with a Sam's size bottle of hand sanitizer and an extra-large can of Lysol. This year, however, I must have been feeling brave because I ventured out of my apartment for many activities and frolicked about fearlessly through the bacteria infested planet we call home. Little did I know what horrible fate awaited me.
So, it's Christmas morning and like any self respecting 20-something I'm in my jammies and slippers, clutching an oversized Santa mug of hot chocolate with miniature marshmallows (or maybe it was a mug of marshmallows with a miniature amount of hot chocolate), 10 feet deep in discarded wrapping paper watching my younger sisters tear through box after box of goodies, feeling as if my family could be filming a sentimental coca-cola commercial when my dad starts looking a little pale. He shrugged it off and went about whatever it is that dads do on Christmas morning (I was way too involved in the removal of a Barbie from her packaging, you pretty much need the jaws of life for that job let me tell you).
It wasn't until a few minutes later when we heard the sound of, well.. puking, that we knew it wouldn't be a blue Christmas after all.. It would be a green one.
From there the domino effect began quickly. First my dad, then my mom, and then my sister. I thought I had narrowly escaped my fate the next day when I awoke with no sweating, nor queasiness, nor paleness (well, okay, I'm always pale. Stop laughing Lindsey) and so I went about my day as usual. Something you should know about Lindsey and I is that we attend a trivia night at a local restaurant on a regular basis, so when we go everyone knows our team and we were super excited to not have to work the next day which means we could stay out a little later and have some fun. Anyways, we grabbed some fast food before heading out and I briefly mentioned to Lindsey that my stomach was feeling a bit funny.. We chalked it up to excitement and drove onward, arriving a few minutes early and grabbing a large table for our group. As people began to arrive and introductions were made I began to realize that the strange feeling in my stomach was indeed more than excitement or nerves or even a bad case of too-many-french fries. I was going to be sick. Like, now.
I will spare you the details but let me just say that spilling the contents of my stomach into a public restroom trash can is less than glamorous and I do not under any circumstances recommend it. Ever.
Being the glutton for punishment that I apparently am, it took another round of up chucking for me to agree to be driven home. (At this point I couldn't drive if I wanted to for the sweat pouring down my brow and the proverbial tweety birds spinning around my head like some kind of looney tunes character.) Once home I began to grasp the gravity of my illness, and was able to successfully set up a clear puke-path that would be navigated in the darkest hours of the night. Some time later Lindsey came home, bearing gifts of Gatorade and saltines (seriously, this is why I can never live alone). She also did some interpretive dancing, which in my hazy dehydrated state I nicknamed "The Liturgical Lysol Lambada." It included the spraying of Lysol in the form of a cross by my door and her pirouetting around using the disinfectant spray as some kind of weird ribbon accessory. If she was on "So You Think You Can Dance," even Nigel would have applauded her creativity. I groaned a thank you and held up a scorecard with an illuminated "10" on the front and continued on my 12 hour journey through hell. (Okay, so some parts of this may be slightly fictional in case you haven't noticed, but the Liturgical Lysol Lambada was real, I swear.)
All in all, I guess things ended well. I mean, it took me another 12 hours sipping on salty Gatorade and gumming a few saltines before I recovered, but I did lose 4lbs which is always a plus. Also, my dog is scarred for life by the demon like sounds I made throughout the ordeal, so now every time I get out of bed in the middle of the night she breaks out the holy water just in case. Hopefully this story has been just as delightfully entertaining to you as it was (and still is) to Lindsey.. No one can say I won't make jokes (or blogposts) at my own expense anymore!
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