You Can't Buy Good Health

The weather around these parts this weekend will be more like March than the cold February days we had earlier in the week. Not that I had a lot from them as about a week after nursing a stuffy nose and post nasal drip I conceded yesterday that enough was enough and saw a doctor. 

In the days before I end up with a physician, and I know the routine by heart because I have at least one of these killer colds every winter, I start patrolling the hallways where I work attempting to plant a big wet kiss on the lips of folks I'm less than happy with (= everyone; but you knew that right?).

This time around I was disappointed with how quickly people closed their office doors and no amount of blandishment or enticement could get them to poke their heads out. What's the point of having a virulent strain of pork-chop fever or brocolliitis if you can't share it?

Defeated, but unbowed, I actually took sick time to see my primary care physician (if I hadn't my wife threatened me with bodily harm). I have enough things medically wrong with me that I should have my own health insurance company, but one of the nicest things about the insurance I do have is that my doctor is in their network.

Some thumping on my back and listening to me breathe with a stethoscope helped her arrive at her diagnosis. That and the fact that every time I coughed, it sounded like I was bringing up not only a lung but also a piece of my spleen and a small pony complete with a saddle. This time of year, she and her colleagues see a lot of us sickies every day so she was wearing a sterile face mask which allowed me to fantasize I was being treated by The Lone Rangerette. 

I anticipate being better today than I was yesterday though I think/hope I'm still 'hot' (or, at least, warm) because there's a meeting I'm hoping to attend this weekend that might be improved through contagion though I suspect the folks in attendance will feel differently (I have that effect on so many). 

Unless and until I tell them about Rebecca Wells in Downey (home of The Carpenters), California, who died at her desk in her cubicle and no one noticed until the following day. I'll leave you to do the math on what this may say about us as a people and a culture. I'm still a little too full of antibiotics to think straight-an excuse I intend to use until the late summer, perhaps into Labor Day weekend.
-bill kenny