Flu

I caught the flu two Saturdays ago. Dear god, what a curse.

The weakness, the coughing, the gelatin scum constantly creeping from my lungs, interfering with every vital process: sleep, breath itself. There are other indignities and incapacities I can abide, but oh, how I hate being sick.

I don't mind the fever itself so much, or at least the temperature sensation of it. For the first half of my ten-day (I'm on the ninth day now, or so, and it feels like I'm almost done) ordeal, I would roast and sweat like, well, a fevered animal. And I rather enjoyed the heated feeling. It felt oddly like I was cold, but if I wrapped up and stayed insulated, my body heat would rage gloriously and I felt like I was cooking nicely from the inside out, and I reveled in it. It was one symptom I was thankful not to suffer too badly from. I read somewhere that a fever is part of your body's attempt to fight the virus by cooking it, and I like the idea.

At about the halfway point, heat turned to cold, and even though I felt the damned gnawing chill I would still sweat profusely through my clothing, pillow, blanket, mattress. At one point, struggling to find a calm position that didn't feel like I was actively daring my lungs to spawn wracking spasms of coughing fits, I turned face-down to the bed, and smelled the beginnings of a moldy presence in my nostrils, the effect of a constant warm, moist presence without respite of sunlight and ventilation for days on end. Finding new ways to disgust and repel yourself (and an inability to correct them until you are better) are added to the list of curses.

It's the weakness that bothers me as much as anything; the robbing from you the better parts of yourself. Stripped of your inability to handle even the merest challenges, lucky to surmount the run-of-the-mill hurdles like daily hygiene and household duties, you lose the part of your identity that proves worth to you and others.  By the end of the week, I had to put garbage cans out for pick-up, and marching resignedly at 6:00 a.m. to the curb with two rollaway bins I found myself losing a crucial bit of my sense of humor. By the time i was back in the house I hated everyone for leaving it for me to do, and in a fit of impotent impatience I managed to clumsily smash a glass in the kitchen, giving myself another unwanted task to finish before preparing for work. During that clean-up, I broke a plate on the floor. Oh, how I wished I could just give up there and then.

The fever and weakness feel surely to go hand-in-hand, and I have learned to become suspicious of the glimmers of hope when they pretend to waver. In the past I have embraced the first glimmers of energy and become more active, only to have the illness return with vengeance and place what feels like an additional tax of severity and duration upon me for daring to celebrate too early.

Friday saw me visit a doctor and secure an antibiotic prescription. Without this luxury of modern medicine, I don't know how or when I would have come out of it. It certainly didn't feel like I was about to bounce back, as I expected I would have normally done, up to now. I really started to fear for my health (hypochondriac tendencies or no). While the fever felt it was beginning to naturally wane, Friday morning took a brief but surprising downturn and felt like one of those things that would just kill off old people and children and others of weak immunity that the news always mentions off-handedly.

Today, I am feeling better, but still weak. I can still regularly cough myself into a brief headache, but I can feel that I am stronger and less infected with the buffet of maladies I am hosting. I am on the penultimate day of my six-day prescription antibiotic, and I am still affected enough that I wonder if tomorrow's final dose will be enough.

My appetite and energy are feebly beginning to return. There is a silver lining to the cloud of cold and flu, where the downtime provides a break from bad habits; I simply don't have the appetite for them, nor the energy to embrace or enjoy them. Junk food, overeating, alcohol are the main players I speak of. I've eaten little during this ill period. While I'd hoped for some weight loss as a result, there has been none. Being bedridden lowers the other side of the register as well, so with no output, the lesser input is only balanced, not a net improvement. Still, I hope to apply enough will to hesitate when resuming these habits, and maybe secure some benefit from this dreary and hated term. Last night's post-dinner ice cream cone bodes that I have my work cut out for me, but there were several instances where it occurred to me to "reward" myself with sweet treats, and I abstained. These are the components of improvement.

I am not helped in this regard by the fact that the past ten days have been almost completely without pleasure or respite. While suffering has been full enough, I am mindful it could have been worse and I try to retain some bit of gratitude to the fore. Still, an extended existence without any highs, pleasant experiences whatsoever, taxes the mind and spirit. As noted before, I started down the road of bitterness about five days in, becoming angry at my little plight, and reveling in it maybe a little more than I should. I'll be glad to see this particular black cloud blow away.

I am sad and ashamed that I have passed the illness on to Michelle. I normally shouldn't be ashamed of a biological function beyond my control, but there was a moment we could have been more conservative in our actions, and Sunday showed proof that we should have waited. She is now inheriting my laundry list of woes, and at least I have the promise of improved vigor with which to care for her, as she did me. I feel badly, not just from guilt, but of empathy. She is at her new job and cannot quite as easily call in sick.

There have been times when she will shake off an illness of mine more quickly and easily than I did; I hope that is the case here. I hate myself for my role in infecting her. All I can do is resolve to take the best care of her that I can.

Watching the world pass me by

There is a pernicious tendency in stand up comedy (and other arts, I'm sure), to strike a spark of jealousy against the flint of others' progress. That is, there are people who will quickly develop a hostility (if not outright hatred) for those that they see succeeding, paying dues and making some kind of progress. How awful.

It is childish and short-sighted and actually detrimental to the one who embraces this way of thinking. It is as clear as any an example of the adage: "Anger is like a hot stone; while you hold it and consider throwing it at your enemy, it is you who is burned." My apologies for a rough paraphrase; it's off the top of my head.

But I am wary as I find myself grinding my teeth in frustration as I see my "peers" (the word is used loosely here, as some are 'above' and some are 'below' me, in my estimation. It matters not) beginning to excel. Nick Larson is talented with photography and image editing. Aaron Kromann is cunning with visual arts. Saul Trujillo is much younger than me, and is becoming skilled and respected in the game of comedy.  They all work at it.

These are just a few examples; there are more. It chafes. It burns, occasionally, that these people are "moving up," as the typical sour grapes, left-behind comedy practitioner might put it. I've had ideas, inspiration for shows or writing or lighting or sound or sponsorship or whatever the hell. And I've let them languish, for some reasons that are understandable and for some reasons that are indefensible, like laziness, fear of being outside a comfort zone, or for the inexplicable, incommunicable motivations that all humans experience on their way to not getting things done.

The difference is (and I am very glad there is a difference) that I understand I don't suffer because they progress. I am happy to see each and every one of the shit-encrusted baboons scrape away the caked-on scum of lethargy and lack (some of these poor assholes don't have a car) and failure off of their miserable hides and attain some "next level" of achievement. Kromann put out a terrific piece of illustration that proudly accompanies the current withering pseudo-rivalry of the MAMA awards this year. Each "MAMA-nee" has put effort and inspiration together and come up with something of which they should be proud. Saul made a fine video. Kromann, his illustration, masterfully done. Even Jason Sohm wrote something legible, I think. El Roberto has nicely posted his proximity to insanity for all to see, and I think it's touching.

And I don't begrudge the any of it. Unlike your typical hater, I see that their success does not equal my failure. It is not a zero-sum game where anything they reap comes out of my harvest.  I am truly happy for each of them when they do well, succeed, "pass."  I've seen all of them, every single one, eat their own excrement in front of a spindly, apathetic crowd, and so I feel that I know them. I am in touch with their humility, even if they are not (but to their credit, I think they all are well aware of their foibles).

But still, I am unsettled. I am bothered to see them make something wonderful. *I* should be making something wonderful. I should have been out working on my abilities last year, when I so smugly considered what I *could* do and left it for later, instead of what I *would* do.

And this is at the heart of my dilemma. Encouragingly, I believe that the only real, productive competition is with that fellow in the mirror. The only person to compare yourself to is the person you were yesterday, or today. Or where you thought you'd be tomorrow. If you can outpace THAT guy, then you have won something. If you can surprise him, and widen *his* eyes a little bit, *then* you have accomplished something.

And I have not impressed that ugly jerk in a while. That hard marker sits and languishes and taps his foot disdainfully and impatiently at my reticence and laziness and chuckles not-so-softly at my sloth, and waits for me to get my shit together and stop making excuses and get uncomfortable and risk my effort and pride and do something I don't know that I can do yet. That prick judges harshly, and I've given him no reason not to laugh derisively and dismiss me.

It pains me to sit in the middle (okay, closer to the beginning) of "the race" and watch runners zip by - "zip... zip... zip-zip..." as I sit in my aluminum lawn chair and numbly search the cooler for one more beer amongst the chunks of ice.

That pang is motivational, if you let it be.

A dream deferred

I was on track to visit Paris in the foreseeable future, and I was stoked. I was studying my French language skills, I was buying guidebooks, and I was scouting Expedia like a sniper on crank. I was in the groove, baby.

Now I'm out of work, and we're lucky to pay bills. Money isn't available to set aside. Language skills are going slack, guidebook's getting dusty, and Expedia can breathe a sigh of relief and stop looking over its shoulder.

I miss the buzz of anticipation. I have said long and often that happiness is having something to look forward to.  It was enough to compel me to all these pleasant endeavors, these happy efforts.

I recently came to realize that I'm still going to Paris, I've just got more time now to study the language, history and art that draws me there, which will inform my trip and expand exponentially my enjoyment of it.

My mindset sloshes to and fro, and I lose sight of valuable nuggets of perspective like this. I really should hold on to it, because it is one of the gobs of light and positivity that helps me stay afloat, so I'm writing it down. Don't wanna lose 'em.