The Flu.
After a Saturday night with the girls spent taking on the pasta bowls of Filemeno and the bourbon list at Old Glory, we were riding high, we were drinking bourbon, we were on our way.
Two days later, we were down. Two of us to the to the flu, one to tonsillitis, and one to Miami. They’re all the same, really.
So here I sit. Surrounded by 100 plus temperatures and a reenactment of the 1900’s national epidemic of whooping cough.
It rocks, let me tell you.
CBS 21 broke with this revelatory news. “This year’s flue season is getting worse…” Got that memo. I go home, someone is dying on the couch. I go the gym, someone is sweating disease. I go to my friend’s house, and the air is, shall we say, moist. And here in D.C. everything is just toxic. But we already knew that. (See here.) The one thing CBS did clear up for me is the why—“This year’s flu vaccine does not protect against more than half of this year’s viruses. The Centers For Disease Control and Prevention says the current vaccine only covers about 40% of the flu virus going around.” Lovely.
The CBS article did leave out a few key points that I have recently observed. Nothing makes twenty-something, self-sufficient females call Mom faster than the onset of influenza. Or make a girl drop $80 bucks at CVS to buy everything and anything that may prevent further coughing. (See Sarah buy a childhood fall back, the vaporizer.) Or learn what “expectorate” means. God bless Wikipedia.
I’m taking two things away from this week of bubonic plague symptoms. Numero uno, pseudoephedrine hydrocholoride (read: Advil Cold and Flu) should also be marketed as the nectar of the gods. And numero dos, the flu, should carry the subtitled for “bringing families together since the original plague.”
Good luck to all of you stricken. May your tissues be soft, your thermometer not warm, and your tea soothing.
Or some other nonsense.
