I'm a teacher in the final weekend of her winter break, so of course I'm sick. It's just the teacher code. If you're not sick at the most inopportune time and forced to entertain/educate/babysit kids while praying for the sweet release of death, they revoke your credential, I'm pretty sure.
I could blame something scientific, like the germs I surely picked up in Vegas while indulging in booze and gambling (and boobs! Burlesque show post forthcoming). But why be reasonable in an anti-vaxxer world? No, I'm sure it was Old Testament justice.
Anyway, while the sound of my voice progresses from a Jewish grandmother to a drowning parrot, and Nickelodeon-grade slime spews forth from my face, I have time to contemplate how miraculous it is that I'm not more sick. Maybe God does love me.
It started our first night in Vegas: that scratchy, closed throat that heralds physical and emotional doom. You're going to get really sick. And you're on vacation. And there's nothing you can do about it.
At first, I genuinely thought I was having a bad reaction to all the smoke. Californians do have a rather delicate constitution when it comes to smoke. And weather. When I woke up the following day in my nonsmoking room, I could barely swallow and my nose was an unstoppable force (tissues were, unfortunately, not immovable objects). In a display of some truly impressive mental gymnastics, I convinced myself that eight hours of breathing in clean air had somehow reminded my body of what a smoke-free environment was like, and the anticipation of descending into a hazy casino was causing the psychosomatic reaction of a sore throat.
Yes, I know. But considering that my sister is consistently able to convince herself not to throw up when the reflex hits, I think this is small potatoes.
I armored myself with toilet paper, having run out of hotel-provided tissues, and set out for adventure. Ignoring my physical breakdown, I proceeded to gallivant around Vegas for the next two days, walking on average ten miles a day.
It gets better. Circumstances prevented us from really indulging in the stellar deals on alcohol you can get in Vegas, so we overcompensated our final full day there. Each of us had at least twenty drinks throughout that day. TWENTY.
Amidst blowing my nose loud enough to wake the entire Rat Pack, I told myself, idiotically, that even if I were sick (which, of course, I wasn't!), alcohol would *kill the bacteria* and I'd get better. I know that's not how it works. I know. But I didn't want to know. I wanted to be drunk in Vegas.
So it is that I prolonged the inevitable and began the new year under a microbial cloud. But I also:
If the superstition is true that what you do on New Year's Day (and the next day—why not? It isn't true anyway.) is what you do all year long, then I suppose I can look forward to a year of good company, good boobs, and body-wrecking fun.
I could blame something scientific, like the germs I surely picked up in Vegas while indulging in booze and gambling (and boobs! Burlesque show post forthcoming). But why be reasonable in an anti-vaxxer world? No, I'm sure it was Old Testament justice.
Anyway, while the sound of my voice progresses from a Jewish grandmother to a drowning parrot, and Nickelodeon-grade slime spews forth from my face, I have time to contemplate how miraculous it is that I'm not more sick. Maybe God does love me.
It started our first night in Vegas: that scratchy, closed throat that heralds physical and emotional doom. You're going to get really sick. And you're on vacation. And there's nothing you can do about it.
At first, I genuinely thought I was having a bad reaction to all the smoke. Californians do have a rather delicate constitution when it comes to smoke. And weather. When I woke up the following day in my nonsmoking room, I could barely swallow and my nose was an unstoppable force (tissues were, unfortunately, not immovable objects). In a display of some truly impressive mental gymnastics, I convinced myself that eight hours of breathing in clean air had somehow reminded my body of what a smoke-free environment was like, and the anticipation of descending into a hazy casino was causing the psychosomatic reaction of a sore throat.
Yes, I know. But considering that my sister is consistently able to convince herself not to throw up when the reflex hits, I think this is small potatoes.
I armored myself with toilet paper, having run out of hotel-provided tissues, and set out for adventure. Ignoring my physical breakdown, I proceeded to gallivant around Vegas for the next two days, walking on average ten miles a day.
It gets better. Circumstances prevented us from really indulging in the stellar deals on alcohol you can get in Vegas, so we overcompensated our final full day there. Each of us had at least twenty drinks throughout that day. TWENTY.
Amidst blowing my nose loud enough to wake the entire Rat Pack, I told myself, idiotically, that even if I were sick (which, of course, I wasn't!), alcohol would *kill the bacteria* and I'd get better. I know that's not how it works. I know. But I didn't want to know. I wanted to be drunk in Vegas.
So it is that I prolonged the inevitable and began the new year under a microbial cloud. But I also:
- learned (sort of) how to gamble at craps
- ate great Italian food recommended by aforementioned craps-table dealers
- drank 20+ drinks in a day without feeling more than buzzed, so I'm basically a goddess now (or Irish Catholic)
- saw a fancy burlesque show with all the boobs!
If the superstition is true that what you do on New Year's Day (and the next day—why not? It isn't true anyway.) is what you do all year long, then I suppose I can look forward to a year of good company, good boobs, and body-wrecking fun.
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