He opened the back hatch of his SUV, the place where his golf clubs will live during the next several months. On Thursdays, Nick plays in a golf league, and the first game of the season is in a few days. Walking into the garage, he grabbed two pairs of shoes and threw them in the back with the rest of the golf paraphernalia. Back in the glory days of 2006, I had golf lesson with Brenda—as you can tell from that entry, we learned more than enough from that first go that we didn't really see the need to go back.
In any event, the instructor never covered golf shoes; I had to ask.
"So, why two different shoes? Is one pair for wet conditions and the other for dry?"
"Is one pair to change into after the game is over?"
"Are you giving one pair to a teammate?"
The sound of crickets was suddenly deafening as I stared him down.
"WHAT'S WITH THE SHOES?" Damn, I wish I had finished those lessons with Brenda, 'cause this was just plain irritating.
(Nick) "I pick which pair I wear depending if black or brown goes better with my outfit."
Ah, my little metrosexual. I should have guessed. Screw golf lessons: we left at our peak.
I have a chest cold. Like a domino effect, I saw the cough gradually roll from the manager's office to the next row, to the row after that, to the row after that, to me. I'm thinking that means it's pretty darn contagious because, as I assured Nick last night, we don't typically lick each other at work. At least not during the even months.
Meanwhile, I have injections scheduled on Monday. We're going into a guess-and-check theory with the pain management now, which is a hell of a lot more of an effort than my former HMO allowed. At my first visit to the pain clinic, the doctor asked me, standing up, to bend forward as far as I could. When my palms rested against the floor, she said, "Okay, no problem with range of motion."
But apparently being naturally flexible isn't just a good conversation starter, it can also mean that the ligaments around certain joints are weak and prone to overuse. So, round one, they're going to put me out and numb the joints on either side of my lower spine. The catch? Every time we're talking in terms of general anesthesia, the patient has to be absolutely the healthiest of healthy.
So I've been trying everything to get rid of this sucker. I am notorious for nurturing a good lung infection for unnaturally long periods (see: childhood), but it's been years since I've had to deal with one so, maybe… Besides, my lifestyle is a whole lot healthier now: that's gotta count for something.
The remedies aren't ladylike at all but I've been open. The two that seem to be helping the most? Coughing up the ickiness and spitting it out and making myself sweat (a lot). This morning I woke with a sore, scratchy throat (coughing does that to you), but I no longer sound like Sophie purring when I take a deep breath.
So now I'm in super scary Lysol mode. I'm squirting the Purell on my hands at least every hour and using a Chlorox wipe on my desk, mouse, and keyboard every morning. I'm THISCLOSE to wearing a mask. And by God! Keep sick children away from me! Until this bug, I've been relatively resilient against adult germs, but those kids come up with the nastiest, treatment-resistant things!
At home, Nick has been careful not to kiss me on the mouth (as he makes fun of my cough). I shake my head but leave him with his false sense of security. This sucker's airborne. Just so long as he doesn't get it before Monday and give it back to me, I'm surprisingly okay with him getting sick.
So last Thursday I spent some time drinking with Nick and Jim. Afterward, Bath and Body Works was so close by, and I did need to get some more soap for the bathroom.
I relayed my recollections to Brenda the next day, remarking how interesting it is to wake up to discover yourself $40.00 poorer (with a bag of goodies to show for it). She seemed to understand, adding, "But then you think, 'Wow, I got a lot of stuff for $40.00!'" Dude. Totally.