Tuesday, November 21, 2006

Pop Pop, Fizz Fizz. Oh, What a Relief It Is.

I'm home sick today. There is maybe, remotely, just barely the possibility that I was well enough to go in to work, and it seems whatever deity rules over morality and electronics has seen fit to punish my truancy by blowing the one fuse in my apartment that powers the TV, the cable box, the DVD player, and, oddly, the bathroom light.

I dutifully opened the fusebox and flipped some switches. I managed to turn everything in my house off and then back on. Except for the TV, the cable box, the DVD player and, oddly, the bathroom light.

You grow up; you work in an office; the powers that be say, "Hey, we're going to pay you to sniffle or puke, but only five times a year, okay?" I guess this is pretty fair, especially when I take into account the fact that my shoes were probably made by toddlers working for pennies eighty hours a week in another hemisphere to save toward dysentery meds. Maybe this is why, even though I'm handed free time off on a platter as long as I cough into the phone when I claim I can't come in, I feel guilty when I take a sick day and I'm not actually infected with something. I mean, I won attendance awards in grade school. I don't usually fake sick.

Somewhere after graduating college though, probably about the same time when I realized that summer vacation was permanently and heart-breakingly gone for life, I began to have days that could only be medicated by never removing my comforter from around my head. I'm not saying it's normal, but I am saying it's very important for me, on certain occasions, to stay in my pajamas for thirty-six hours with a blanket pulled up around my face babooshka-style, watching daytime television and eating grilled cheese. This is what I did today.

Minus the television, because, as discussed, I've been smited.

I guess this counts as sick, doesn't it? I've been having a cruddy time of it lately, and while a doctor may not see anything scientifically valid about the powers of a Target Bed in a Bag, I maintain that I have absorbed some sort of restorative antibody directly through my head. Tomorrow I'll be able to leave the house. Right now, though, I think I might look for a flashlight so I can read under the covers the best way.

And maybe do some research about how to placate the Sick Day Television Police God. If you can lure Santa to your house with cookies and milk, maybe I'll tithe a Swanson Salisbury steak microwave dinner and hope I wake up to cable.


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