H8er!

I’ve been feeling so crappy lately that, at this very moment, I’m missing my department’s Big Event of the season. Wouldn’t want to sneeze on the dignitaries’ cheese cubes and chardonnay, which are nothing to sneeze at in this economy. As much as part of me must acknowledge how being magnificently sick has been a reprieve from weekend collegiality, it is also a pain in the ass that brought out my inner curmudgeon, which never needed much coaxing, anyhow.

Yesterday I ran out of my tried-and-true Thera-Flu, and I exhausted my last drop of NyQuil this afternoon. So that I could continue to feel better through chemistry, I had to replenish my supplies. I know some of my neighbors drive to the store, though we can walk to it within ten minutes. I’ve been feeling lousy enough that I seriously considered driving, but even I have principles, so I layered on my t-shirts and sweatshirts and fleeces (bear in mind that I take forever to dress when there’s no elegant teaching uniform to throw on) and finished off the ensemble with me warm lickle woolly mittens and scarf. I shivered as a stepped off my steps and was passed by a pair of joggers in tank tops and shorts. Whatever. I was cold.

Then as I was ringing up my three boxes of Kleenex and bottle of NyQuil at the self-checkout, I was stopped for the latter, whose label declares that it not only “Tastes Better Than Ever!” but also contains 10% alcohol. I’m small but I don’t look underage, so the attendant didn’t even have to look at my driver’s license to punch in “December 03, 1960.” Good Lord, do I look that bad? Whatever. I looked old.

But the pièce de résistance still awaited me. One of the things I like about my town is that it moves at a more leisurely pace than the cities in which I was brought up and in which I conduct research. People actually saunter in my gracious little neighborhood, often accompanied by children and dogs.

So did they today. As I crossed the street from the store, I couldn’t help noticing that I was following a young couple alternately accompanied, led, and followed by what appeared to be a collie-German shepherd mix on a very long leash. The dog stopped to sniff every other tree and flower pot, and whenever it passed another dog—which was frequently, as people here are dog-mad—the very long leash would become taut as it stood barking. Meanwhile, the couple was talking about how hard “FAFSA” is to pronounce. (Well, Junior, wait till you have to pay off the consequences of filling it out inattentively; pronunciation will be the least of your worries.) They weren’t paying attention to the dog. After three blocks of this purgatorial combination of insipid conversation and unruly dog, I had gotten quite close to them. Meanwhile, I couldn’t wait to suck down my NyQuil and go to sleep. I could almost taste them, and I was mad with anticipation that one them Tastes Better Than Ever!

One block before turning onto my street, the couple paused. Would they turn and be out of my life forever? Please?

No. They continued straight. I couldn’t stand it anymore. “Nooooo!” I wailed. “Nonononono!” The couple and the dog stopped, turned, and stared. I couldn’t believe I did that. But you know? I’m relieved I did. And the NyQuil? Tastes the same as it ever did. I’m about to fall asleep into my keyboard, but to tell the truth, I had already started feeling better when I let my inner curmudgeon give way to my inner brat. I highly recommend that everyone do so every once in a while.