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Too Sick To Write? Call Buffy
I’ve been sick all week. Maybe it was something I ate. Maybe it was E. coli from the lake water I drank while doing laps between the buoys. Maybe it was some intestinal bug, but I was out.
I did the standard COVID rapid test I keep in my downstairs bathroom cabinet. I miss the head cold, the lite-flu, the summer allergies. I miss saying “I have a bug” without becoming persona non grata.
I canceled my grownup roof deck date because it’s uncool to be ambiguously sick around other people these days. Remember when people used to go to parties when they were sick? You didn’t share a drink with the sickie party friend, but that was the extent of your repulsion.
Sure, the people who washed their hands in Bleach wanted the sickies to go home, but everybody else was like, “I don’t want what she’s having, man.” Now, when someone coughs, people leave the room like Hemingway sent in the bulls.
