Flirting with the flu
I've been watching the spread of the flu on the news this week and wondering if I'll escape it.
You see, I didn't get a flu shot. (Gasp!)
And I have no intention of getting one. (Double gasp!)
The last time I got a flu shot, I got a sore arm and the flu. Ever since then, I take my chances. Look, I'm not in a high-risk group. I'm young, but not too young. I'm old, but not that old. I don't have a weakened immune system. I'm not pregnant. I don't live or work with anyone at high-risk for developing serious complications. And as a general rule, I don't lick many doorknobs or shopping cart handles.
I wash my hands a lot. Not like OCD-a-lot, but enough. I keep a squirt bottle of hand sanitizer in one of the 13 cup holders of my Mombulance and use it every time I go through a drive-thru, or use an ATM, or slide a dollar into someone's thong.
I snack on my kids' vitamin D gummies all winter long and drink raspberry Emergen-C in a wine glass as my afternoon cocktail.
And on the rare occasion that I do feel that telltale scratchy tickle in the back of my throat like I'm on the verge of coming down with something, I chug a home remedy that usually does the trick. Or so I'd like to believe.
Of course I realize that I'm totally jinxing myself by writing this post. But I have been a little depressed lately, so it might be a cry for help.
Last week, against all better judgment, I found myself eating a bowl of homemade clam chowder that had been in my refrigerator for thirteen days. It passed the smell test and I was ravenous, so I went for it, devil may care. And nothing bad happened. Not even a rancid clam-scented toot the next day. Nothing.
I'm not going to lie. It made me feel a little invincible.
So the next afternoon I told my seat belt to kiss my ass, bought some cheap foundation at the corner store without even holding it up to my face in the filthy plastic display mirror, and then shared a needle with a Puerto Rican hooker. Fine, that "needle" was a sewing needle, and by "hooker" I mean crochet enthusiast. But still. She may have been harboring flu germs on those crafty hands.
Maybe my whole fast-and-loose policy with flu shots, makeup, and leftovers is a way to spin the wheel in the roulette game of life. So what if it is?
Hey, I'm probably never going to climb Mt. Everest, or get picked to be a contestant on Dancing with the Stars, or liberate myself from a fallen boulder by gnawing off an appendage. It is highly likely that flirting with the flu is the single most dangerous thing I'll attempt all year.
Perhaps if my ride on the Clam Carousel had gone another way, I'd be in line behind you today at the local flu shot clinic.
But it didn't.
And I won't.
So let me laugh in the face of the flu while donning my slightly orange visage and a homemade poncho in the colors of the Puerto Rican flag, because I'm on a roll.