What A Strange Way to Kick Me When I'm Down

This week, I was struck twice. The first blow was delivered in the form of some sort of flu/cold hybrid that sadistically attacked my immune system. In the grand tradition of hybrid names (Bennifer, holla) I’ve coined this illness “flold.” I would have gone with “clu,” but my deep love for the board game “Clue” and it’s companion film, 1985’s "Clue: The Movie" (starring the enchantingly creepy Tim Curry), prohibits it. Anyway, the general symptoms of this malady included a severe stuffy nose, clogged ears, bizarre fever dreams, horrendous body aches, fiery eyeballs, violent, hacking sneezes, and a face rubbed so raw by tissue that no ointment could soothe it. I spent three days in bed trying to find a position that would ease my congestion while shooting up nose spray and watching hours and hours of whatever was on Bravo (where I saw literally a million commercials for online dating. I hate that they know their target audience so well…). It was so nasty an illness that even the dog, who is a golden retriever, a breed which is generally regarded as the kindest of all the canines, looked at me out of the cut of his eye, turned on his heels and walked away looking disgusted. Yeah, it was that gross. But, as these viral ailments usually do, the flold came and went in a matter of days. Things were looking up…until I foolishly left my sick bed too early and got rear-ended. Blow #2.

I was on my way home when I stopped at an intersection because, although the light was green, there was an ambulance passing through in the opposite direction and that’s what you have to do. Plus, all the other cars around me were stopped and, as the lemming theory has always served me well in the past, I followed along. Unfortunately, the huge, fast-moving truck behind me did not, and I got rear-ended. Now, I probably should have prefaced this by saying that I drive a little car, a VW Beetle. That sucker is a complete road warrior; you would understand if you saw how minimally it was damaged after the hit, but as I am new to the blog world, it didn’t occur to me to take a picture to show you, so you’ll just have to take my word for it. But wow – what a champion. I’m not saying it doesn’t suck to get hit (and from the minute you get your license it seems to be sort of inevitable no matter how good of a driver you are), but knowing your car can withstand it and protect you from any bodily harm is a perk for sure. Anyway, the man who hit me (what’s up, Jay?) was the kind of guy you want to hit you – super sweet and terribly apologetic. And lucky for him, I’m the kind of girl you want to hit (dirty) – I don’t freak out (at least not outwardly) and I’m not mean (ditto, though my inner monologue is so chock full of obscenities that I fear the consequences should I put them in print here). Another good thing: I have a pretty sweet rental ride while my car is in the body shop – a definite plus. I actually couldn’t be happier with how the situation turned out. The only thing better would have been, you know, not getting hit at all.

And now it’s time for me to admit something to you all: I just reread this post and for the life of me I can’t figure out where I was going with it. Probably something about how you get hit the hardest when you’re least expecting it? That’s not ringing true now, especially since a) I felt achy and tired for days before the flold attacked, a clear sign of impending illness, and b) I could see in my rearview mirror that the truck was not going to be able to stop in time and that I would indeed be whacked. Maybe something revolving around the old, “If you get knocked down, get right back up” cliché? That’s also somewhat ridiculous considering that I was a huge moaning baby when I was sick and also that I was so shaken up after the accident it’s a miracle my quivering hands could steer me home, and, now that I’m back on the road, I can’t help checking the rearview every few seconds just to make sure the driver behind me is maintaining a safe following distance. I guess I’ll go with this: If you get sick but not sick enough that you have to go to the doctor, do name your illness something fun, preferably one of those blended names, and do not watch Bravo unless you want to be inundated with online dating ads and hours of “The Real Housewives of Orange County” reruns. Also, if you do get rear-ended, do your best to get hit by Jay and his big truck, because although getting rear-ended is a bummer, at least Jay is nice and will say he is sorry and make sure that your taillights still work before you drive away. Oh, and do write your insurance information on Korean stationery. Not only is it better than a napkin or an envelope or the paper liner from a maxi pad, but the confused look you get when you hand over your info on a little piece of pink paper imprinted with a bear surrounded inexplicably by various drug accoutrements is just classic and can take the edge off of any difficult situation. Trust me.


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And now it’s weird because I just talked about maxi pads. I don’t know what to say, except that sometimes an entry doesn’t end up exactly how you thought it would, yet you can’t get rid of the whole thing because there’s enough good stuff in there to make it worth posting. So, every now and again, you have to talk about maxi pads. You just do. Have a nice weekend.