Stupid and Contagious

Is it a bad sign when you can’t read the answer on your Magic 8 Ball? Seriously. I don’t know if they’re using a darker, denser liquid in these things or what, but I can never get a clear answer…

I did get a nice fortune in my fortune cookie the other night, though. Well, nice, if not grammatically correct:

“Happiness always accompanies with you.”

See? Nice.

I keep all my fortunes and stick them to my refrigerator with a magnet.

“A merry heart makes a cheerful countenance.” Ya think?

“Every man is a volume if you know how to read him.” Yeah, I thought that one was a little awkward, too.

“Good things are being said about you.” ...In bed.

“Nature, time, and patience are the three great physicians.”

Okay, that one isn’t particularly good, but it's true. And it makes a nice segue...


I guess I’m still getting over that cold I had last week because I fell asleep on the couch at seven o’clock on Friday night and slept through phone calls from the friends I was supposed to go out with that night. That’s okay, though. No way could I have navigated three-inch heels after the leg presses I did on Thursday and riding Friday afternoon.

So, I wake up Saturday morning with my left eye swollen shut.

This can’t be good.

I'm a big believer in the power of denial, though, and just wash my face and go about my morning.


My first birthday email hit my inbox at one-thirty in the morning. It’s from my buddy who was just here for a visit in December. The next one is from a blast from the past, so that's always nice. On my other email account, Email Buddy Eric dropped me a line at six-thirty in the morning, just as I was checking it, which I thought was kinda cool.

My father sent me a very sweet email. He lives and works in South America nine months out of the year, and my mom usually handles the b-day stuff, signing his name to cards, presents, et cetera, so this was a nice surprise. My youngest sister sent me an e-card. I got an email from one of my aunts, too. And a text from Josh.

Then, my mom calls, sick with the flu. She actually forgets to wish me a “Happy Birthday” during the phone call, but I think it was implied…

Karli calls. Carrie calls. When I tell them about my eye, they become instant Doctor Moms. “Oooh, sounds like pink-eye.”

“But I wash my hands," I tell them. "And I’m not eight.”

I blame the couch.

“You’d better go see someone,” they both tell me.


I get to the walk-in clinic.

The woman behind the desk takes my information.

“Your insurance should cover this. Let me check,” she does some stuff with the computer. ”It does. Oh, and Happy Birthday.”

“Thanks.”

I sit and read for a couple of minutes before another woman comes to call me back.

“Come on, Birthday Girl.”

“Thank you.”

I climb up on the doctor's scale. I’ve gained three pounds. Stupid, broken scale.

The nurse takes my vitals, while I try to figure out where the three pounds have come from.

“I think I have pink eye.” It could be all the french fries.

“Well, we still have to do all this.”

“Oh, of course.” Or the cookies I ate for dinner last night.

The doctor comes in a few minutes later. A slim, fifty-ish Pakistani man.

He smiles at me and starts to tell me a joke. I can’t understand anything he’s saying, but I laugh anyway. Maybe it was the shrimp fried rice I had the other night.

He keeps smiling. I smile back. He seems a little over-friendly, and it's making me uncomfortable. That fortune cookie put me over the top. I just know it.

I stop smiling, and he takes this as his cue to get to work. But instead of my eye, he’s checking my lungs. Look, I know you took an anatomy class at some point, right?

“Um,.. I think I have pink eye.” They're almond-shaped. They're hazel. And they're up here... Oh, almonds. I did have some almonds the other day. Nuts have a ton of calories.

“Just take some deep breaths.”

I comply. Okay, I could do without the Mike 'N Ikes. Just because they taste fruity, that doesn't mean I should be substituting them for fruit.

He moves from the back to the front. Hey, you're going to need to watch where you put that stethoscope, Buddy.

I breathe. I honestly can't remember the last time I ate an actual vegetable.

“Do you feel congested?”

“Well, a little, I guess. I had a cold last week, and I still have a bit of a cough. Really, though, it’s my eye that’s bothering me.” And those three pounds.

“Hmm.”

He finally moves to my eye. I look at his chin. I look at his forehead. I look left and right. I'm only going to eat salads and drink water for the next month.

“You have moderate-to-severe bronchitis,” he tells me as he’s writing in my chart, “and pink eye.”

Stupid couch.

“You’ll be contagious for the next three days. I’m prescribing you some drops for your eye and an inhaler, antibiotics, and steroids for the bronchitis.”

“Do I really need the steroids?” I'm only five-five. Three pounds on me is like ten pounds on a boy.

“Okay, no steroids,” he agrees, scratching out something he's written in my chart, “But come back if you’re not feeling better. Oh, and Happy Birthday.”

"Thanks." A lot.


BTW. Does anyone know how long it takes for the residual smell of an entire can of Lysol to fade from goose-down cushions?