Traveling Companion

I work at home. There is no watercooler to gossip around. The office politics can be vicious and one-sided, but they don't flare up too frequently. And although I'm a dutiful handwasher, possibly bordering on obsessive compulsive, I don't so much have to worry about rubbing up against the germs that cube-mate Sheila's first grader brought home from school and generously gifted to her, her family, and each one of her coworkers, like some kind of art-hour macramé craft project.

(Do they do macramé in first grade? Maybe not. But they should. You could demonstrate some fine motorskilling there.)

So when I get on, say, a plane or stay in, say, a hospital for two days, well, those germs just start hopping about fleas on a dog, or a toddler on a toy you've told him you're going to sell on ebay.

They're real friendly like. In fact they were so very friendly and needy that apparently I had to bundle them up and take them home with me.

Which is all just a fancified and laborious way of telling you, I feel like crap.

But even though I felt like crap, I also felt it was my duty to get a start on those resolutions that I haven't even had the time to bore you with. Because there's no better time to feel guilty and inadequate than when you're feeling sickly. (Or so it works out in my head. I tend to kick myself when I'm down.) It's a traveling show of self-deprecation and martyrdom. Book the matinée while there are still seats.

So I headed to the gym. Because that's a good idea. I started with the theory that I'd elliptical through and beyond these germies.

I ended up feeling rather dizzy and nauseous. And, you know, a whole lot crappier.