By Adam Frisk
Many say that age brings wisdom. My recent track record suggests otherwise. I recently flipped over another year on life’s calendar, for the 46th time, and it seems that I’ve hit the milestone where a simple sneeze can throw my back out of whack for a few days. But turning a year older wasn’t enough of a celebration; I decided to mark this new chapter of middle age by contracting whatever mutant bug that is currently sweeping through our community.
I have been sick for more than a week. I’m not exactly talking about the mild sniffle kind of sick where you sit on the couch and binge-watch TheX-Files while slurping down some questionable canned chicken noodle soup. I’m talking about the full-blown, head-throbbing, system-rebooting bug that leaves you staring at the ceiling wondering if you forgot how to swallow.
It seems to be everywhere, though. You’ll hear it while grocery shopping, that faint “achoo!” coming from the frozen food section or the stomach-churning cough that you know that person just swallowed whatever erupted up from their lungs.
But it’s the seasonal rite of passage that we all knew was coming. The health unit posts the messages on social media. The pharmacies decorate their windows with gentle, persistent reminders. “Get your flu shot,” they say. “It’s quick, it’s easy, and it’s free.”
And yet, I walk past the pharmacy twice a day, five days a week, seemingly nodding at the flu shot poster like someone who definitely intended to book an appointment, while carrying out an internal dialogue boasting about my superior immune system. Turns out I have a far less superior immune system than my inner voice had convinced me of.
What makes this week-long descent into misery somewhat ironic is that I am currently six months sober. Half a year without touching a drop. You’d think the universe would reward six months of clear-headed, healthy choices with some invincibility or at least a functional respiratory system. Instead, my reward for being six months on the wagon is a two-four of Tylenol Complete, a six-pack of tissues, and the realization that my lungs sound like the bagpipes you hear at Head Lake Park on Thursday evenings.
So, to everyone else in the County who is currently staring at the ceiling or coughing into their questionable canned soup, I hear you. And to those of you who actually went out and got your flu shots on time, congratulations on not succumbing to your inner voice. Feel free to wave at the rest of us through the window while we continue to bury ourselves under used tissue while sitting on the couch watching reruns.
The truth is out there.
