I've been ill. Not sick, ill. Not a sniffle, or a "head thing". The kind of ill that a Ricola just won't touch. The kind of ill that requires full blown science, chemicals. Bleach, battery acid, medicine that tastes like tar. This started a week ago. So gross I cut out on the Golden Globes at 9:30 last Sunday. Yeah, that bad. Although, looking at all the post-show coverage it appears I didn't miss that much. Just a brief review: Everyone looked like shit. None of the sleeves were necessary, everyone wore the wrong color, there was some serious highlighter abuse happening, and all the boobs looked saggy and flat. I will say that I did love Jennifer Lawrence's structured Dior, but it looked like she bleached her hair in my bathroom.
Something happens to me when I am ill.
In my head--I always think when I'm at that feverish on the verge of hallucination point that this will surely be the end. I've known two women to die alone of pneumonia in their beds. The first, a trans woman missing half of both of her pinkies. (She was a professional florist.) I always wondered how she managed to have that same accident twice, or if she took care of the second one on purpose so she would be symmetrical-she was very stylish after all. But as glamorous as she was, she still died alone in bed, in a bent position that looked as if she'd been reaching for the phone. The other wore turtle necks and long necklaces and worked at a bank. She wore outdated glasses and had terrible hair, and though she had a boyfriend and three children, she died alone, in bed, just days after being released from the hospital. So I decide with authority that I want to look like Candy Darling on her death bed when my body is found. Only just this morning I woke up with my eyes crusted shut-and the t-shirt I'm wearing is at least 15 years old, so I am more likely to look like something from a Unicef commercial. But I do have to admit that with every ounce of extraneous fluid oozing out of my body, my ankles have never looked thinner.
And I actually do tend to hallucinate. The standard in my adult life has been blue muppets, like something from Sesame Street. I ask them to bring me things, or turn the light out for me, and they sleep with me. I got mono as a teenager and told my mother about a feverish dream I had where I was a baby in an all white room watching giant black spiders crawl out of my toy box and march across the room. She told me this wasn't a dream, but a memory. She told me that as a toddler I was deathly ill and had to be rushed to the hospital in the middle of the night. She said the room I described was my nursery and I had woken my parents screaming about spiders. And on the way to the hospital in the ambulance I talked to angels. I obviously don't remember any of this, but it's just fucked up enough to be true.
And in my house--I am given exactly two days to heal and get over whatever it is I am suffering from, no matter how serious. After two days, my wife tends to "forget" that I am ailing and starts asking me what I am making for dinner, or if I will bring her something to drink, or tell me I have to start taking the dogs out because she's already done it once. And G-d this kitchen is so gross, these dishes need to be done. I could be bleeding from the eyes on day three and she would ask, "Still?"
So there is no rest for the wicked. No sympathy for the devil. And though it is not nearly as romantic as Candy Darling on her death bed, I will hopefully live to see another day. Because the kitchen is so gross. Those dishes need to be done.
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