Saturday night, with the best of intentions, I treated my brother to a belated birthday dinner in Lincoln Park, and before leaving the place, I had become so sick, I’d even made an emergency visit to the men’s room when the ladies’ was occupied and things had gotten, well, urgent. (A consoling factor, perhaps, was the look on the face of the man waiting outside when I exited, which, someday I can hope, will seem very funny indeed.)
I haven’t been this sick since last Christmas, when I had similar symptoms after a nasty chicken salad (which, incidentally, I have not eaten since). I can’t look at a cookbook, I’ve been muting all food-related commercials and, when I tried to skim the blogs in my reader, I almost lost whatever remnants were left in my stomach.
You know things have gotten very bad when you finally have a full day of doing nothing but laying beneath a pile of blankets in front of the television, watching one chick flick after another, and you don’t even enjoy it. Everything, from Steve Martin’s being father of the bride to some teenage girls sharing a pair of traveling jeans, made me cry. I even teared up watching Return to Me, a movie I have seen dozens of times, because I just love those little old guys and their Italian-Irish restaurant, and isn’t it sweet that Minnie Driver’s heart found David Duchovony?
I’m a mess, clearly. For the next few days, aside from a big glass of Pedialyte, chicken broth and a few pieces of plain toast, there isn’t much food on the horizon. Even when I can eat again, it will likely take some convincing to want to.
So take this as an I.O.U., would you? When I return, it will be sans bug, and I think we’ll all feel a little happier.