Ick. I'm sick...

Well, they got me. They finally got me. I knew I couldn’t dodge it forever. Plus, I was long overdue. Not since my first calendar year working with children at the museum have I fallen victim to it, but (*alas*) it was unavoidable.

That’s right. I’m sick. At-home-in-bed kind of sick. It sucks. Sucks, sucks, sucks, sucks, sucks (don’t expect much in terms of vocabulary today. It just ain’t happening).

As always, whenever I get sick, I immediate blame those disease-ridden cesspools, otherwise known as: 4th graders. This is because they are the age/grade I am most often confronted with at the museum. However, due to the various academic schedules of the local ISDs, I do not see the little boogers frequently enough to ever build up an immunity to them. Yes, THEM. Have you dealt with a 4th grader recently? They are uniquely disgusting. I think it is an age thing. They are constantly coughing and sneezing all over each other with no regard to hand-washing, personal space or, say, the wild, wild world of Kleenex. They are also the grade that, in my opinion, has the most problem with projectile vomit, but that is altogether another issue.

I can always tell when a group of 4th graders has entered the museum. I might not be able to see or hear them (surprising, I know), but I can smell them every time. A gaggle of 4th graders smells a bit like a bag a stale Cheetos. I’m convinced that is what SO MANY bugs, viruses and bacteria smell like in close proximity to one another. Don’t believe me? Visit your local elementary school. The smell of 4th graders can be faintly detected simply by opening the front door.

Anyway, I did venture into work this morning, if only to complete a single task that I had promised my boss I’d finish by lunchtime. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have even bothered. My head is so congested that if I stand up too quickly I get rather dizzy. That and I apparently don’t look or sound so hot either. Cases in point:

- I ran into one of my coworkers while entering the building this morning. Upon seeing me he stated: “Wow. You look pathetic.”

- I was sitting at my desk typing on my computer when I was interrupted by another coworker. She said: “You look really bad! I take it you still aren’t feeling well, huh?”

- Calling RR to cancel working on a museum-related project this afternoon: “You sound horrible, Deals!”

- Calling my crackjass boss to let him know I was going home early, he replied: “Thank God.”

Of course, my reaction to all the above commentary was: “Gee. Thanks.”

So, feeling rather unwanted, I left the office and headed to the grocery store for some meds to alleviate the symptoms. This, thanks to Methamphetamine abusers everywhere, was much easier said than done. In order to get a “good” (i.e. effective) over-the-counter decongestant, I had to elicit the help of my local Tom Thumb pharmacist. However, getting through post-911 airport security is easier than obtaining a box of Sudafed. First, two (yes, two) pharmacists had to observe me to make sure I actually needed the medication. Luckily, I looked and sounded terrible, so this was relatively easy. Then, I had to produce a photo-ID and watch the pharmacist enter my drivers-license number into a computer to make sure I hadn’t been hitting up all the local pharmacies for similar drugs that morning. Finally, I had to sign a book stating I had received the medication and it was for my personal use. Only at that time was I allowed to take my box of Sudafed (stapled tightly inside a prescription box with my receipt on top) out of the store with me.

Now, I understand why these strict policies are in place, but when you are ill the last thing you want to deal with is stuff like this. I just wanted to scream, “LOOK AT ME! I’M DYING HERE! AGGHHHH!”

Anyway, life is marginally better now that I’m medicated and back in bed watching Animal Planet. But it still sucks. Boo. I hate being sick (stupid 4th graders).

THE END