I like to think that I’m fiercely independent. That, of course, requires a degree of toughness. It’s all fun and games and cats to live alone, except everything else. Since this is a what-I-hated-the-least kind of post, I hate it the least to report that I’m managing surprisingly well. I’m surprising myself even, though I’m impossible to be surprised by myself—because logic.
I take an unhealthy pride in my newly developed skill of carrying my groceries. That is, carrying a bulky bag of unexpectedly heavy items for longer stretches than one could wish for. I’m wondering when I will develop the monkey-arm syndrome, which occurs in women who carry heavy shopping bags for so long that their arms get morbidly prolonged, like those of monkeys.
I’ve been down with the flu the third day now, except I’ve been up because I’m tough. Either I actually am that or I’m successfully faking it, deceiving even myself. I’ve run out of tissues and other flu necessities, so I naturally went shopping the first thing in the morning. I felt mildly shaky for sure, but my temperature was only 37°C (98.6 F), so I totally got it.
The trip went smoothly, though I was slightly dizzy and suspected I was seeing things that weren’t really there. Like cities on people’s legs. Manifesting a cool-headed presence of mind, I took a snap of my hallucination, so you can see for yourself—check out the header image of this post. My temperature jumped to 37.5°C (99.5 F) when I returned, but I was loving it.
I’m normally cold in all seasons and all weathers, but with a bit of temperature, I was feeling awesomely warm. I turned the heating off, threw the window wide open and semi-stripped (in all decency, of course). You might wish to point out that isn’t exactly the classic conservative treatment recommended for the flu. But I don’t care for classic, I’m tough, okay? Also, I’m now back to 37°C (98.6 F), and I think I’ll soon declare myself healthy.