It's the Intermission
A Creative Coffee Break

The Beloved and I have postponed celebrating New Year’s for a couple of weeks. We’ve been at home, in a quarantine of sorts, recovering from a norovirus, not really registering what’s going on around the world.

Yeah, sure, I have a new found appreciation for why these viruses are so potentially deadly for people who are old, or have compromised immune systems, or for infants. Forget bird flu, people, it’s the noro-roro-whadyaname-em-things that are gonna get us. Okay, a little voice of doomish, I know. I’m still recovering, and I wouldn’t wish one of these viruses on my worst enemy. Honestly. I’d worry about the karmic ramifications.

We were home a good 24 hours from our wonderful holiday with The Beloved’s family, and I was rejoicing quietly over the fact this was my second winter season of traveling wherein I managed to avoid an influenza. See, I had a five year period there where I kept getting what the docs kept calling the flu, and each year it came on harder and lasted longer. After some very scary times, oh really  nevermind, who cares? I wrote about it all in a play anyway. Metaphorically.

So, anyway, The Beloved left work early, not feeling well, and our night ended with a trip to the ER, which included blood tests, an IV for dehydration and morphine for pain. When the second doc arrived to release The Beloved back to home care, he tried to keep as far away from us as possible while proclaiming The Beloved had "acute gastroenteritis." Innocently, I inquired after the virus the first doctor had mentioned. "Oh yes, we’re talking about the same thing." "Ut oh," I thought, and knew, despite any precautions I might take, I’d already been exposed. Some twelve hours later, my symptoms arrived, and while I was aware my bout was not as bad as The Beloved’s, well, even this is more than anyone wants or cares to know, I’m sure. Any acknowledgment of 2007 has been shoved off until the idea of a romantic dinner once again sounds appealing.

I know I’m feeling better as I’ve been pondering the humor in a coming change in our lives. This change brings a bit of fear around a couple of things we’ve found hard to stomach. Yes, I do think illness can be a metaphor for what’s going on. I’m glad more often than not the last couple of years, there have been less trying metaphors cropping up.

I’m not a resolution maker. I learned over twenty years ago, that I can resolve at any time to create new habits of thought and behavior. And when I fail, if I fail, I can pick myself back up and begin again. Each day I set my intention for the day before it begins, and reflect at the end of the day how my intentions held forth. For a handful of years, I’ve used New Year’s Eve, to reflect on broader intentions for the coming year, and I enjoy writing out my dreams, thoughts, and goals. Instead of Dec 31st, this year, thanks to the norovirus, I’ll wait until Jan 17, the anniversary of the last drink of alcohol I had, in 1985. I should be more than ready and re-energized for the kind of pondering I do not feel up to right now. Somehow it seems a fitting date this year. Thanks to the noro. Yeah, I keep saying that.

Over the last couple of days I’ve managed to watch an entire season of Ugly Betty, which, to my surprise, I enjoyed immensely. I also watched Superman Returns, which I enjoyed because I could fast forward through the boring parts, and The Family Stone. The latter a bulky, confused movie I found absolutely delightful. And I type this post, as The Beloved watches some silly football game downstairs, and I have Monk on the TV upstairs. An irony about the noro-thing: Not many people who know me realize what a germ-a-phobe I really am. Being sick for months at a time can do that to a person. I try to keep it private. Monk can be annoyingly narcissistic about his phobias. Of course, I cannot hide it from The Beloved, who to my good fortune is (again an irony here) a food safety expert. She lectures me that soap and water is still the best safe-guard against germs. Alas, soap and water are not always available in a timely fashion, and so she indulges me by bringing home samples of anti-bacterial hand washes I carry around with me. I am easy to please. And now you know way too much.

 As I’ve bleached the bathrooms, the doorknobs, the railings for hopefully the last time, I’ve begun to muse about the over-writing, or re-writing, of plays. How, uh, "sanitized" plays can become so they are devoid of the original passion which inspired their birth. And that is a topic I hope to get to soon.