WARNING FOR PEOPLE WHO HATE SURPRISES: A lot of photos this week and a longer post than usual—maybe, who knows. Length is a construct. That’s what she said. Goodnight!
I very well know that I’ve mentioned dealing with a cold multiple times in the past month or so. And I know the readers have had just about e-nough of my nasal journey. But listen.
I got another cold last week. Yeah, your eyes heard me. A freshie. Like one day my muscles were aching and I thought, “Wow, my latest YouTube Zumba class with Tanzi! (exclamation point included in spelling of name) kicked my gyrating butt” and the next day I was moaning and snorting on the couch wondering how such a fate could again befall a good, simple, church-going (lie) woman like me.
Obedient citizen that I am, I took my Covid tests and I passed. Passed as in all were negative. I wrote all of that in a confusing way because I am doing art here.
For some reason though, I have a very rose-colored vision of how a low-level physical malady should play out. In my mind, a cold means you feel too bad to do your work or see people, but well enough to goof off and party hard, Hermit the Frog-style.
However, I neglected to remember that doing anything, even keeping absolutely still, as still as a gazelle on the savannah, is uncomfortable when you have a cold.
“Wait, this isn’t what I meant though,” I pathetically snuffled to myself.
As mucus freely ran laps down my throat, I slumped further into the couch and said horrible things like “What is the point of being sick if I can’t enjoy it?” to no one.
Then, to comfort myself, I texted my partner to pick up maxi-pads, the biggest he could find. My period started the same day as my cold hit full-throttle, and I decided I deserved a little treat. Most people wouldn’t consider maxi-pads a treat, but when you’re out of your mind with a “common” virus, you lose all perspective. The least I could do was put on a mini-diaper and call it a night.
As far as I can tell, this is what kicked off the emotional regression. And we all know regression is a slippery slope. Before I knew it, steeped in my own pity and fluids, I got sucked into a homegrown dystopian YA show.
Usually, as of late, my go-to is watching non-American crime shows. Like instead of solving cold cases in *yawn* New York City, let’s go to a small French mountain town where nobody laughs at genuinely funny jokes or howze about a South Korean tale of vengeance and intrigue where multiple characters get face-altering plastic surgery over the course of the show so the actors playing them keep changing.
So who knows why I went for standard American English teen angst this time. Again, let’s blame my cloudy brain box.
(And no, I’m not going to name any of the shows because while the apps don’t value privacy and discretion, I do. Callback: my maxi-pads!!!)
Before I knew it (but really I knew the whole time), I got sucked into this show hard. I got overly invested in all the characters not to mention the plot and I started doing things like pressing my hand to my face when I was watching, which I call my “concerned aunt” state.
Here was the entirely foreseeable problem. Whenever I watch shows when I am sick, I get more attached than usual. It’s the same way that when you watch a movie with any emotion whatsoever on a plane, it is more likely to make you cry.*
*There is some science there maybe—I heard it on a podcast once and no, I’m not going to link it. I’m not a monster. I mean, I am, but I’m working on it. Just trust me. Everybody, not just your average baby, is going to cry on a plane. I mean, you really don’t even need a reason, air travel is stressful for everyone, even the actors in the safety video, which will probably also make you cry.
When I got Covid in the summer of ‘22 (makes it sound more romantic), I was banished to one room in a Brooklyn apartment, and a good friend suggested I watch a historical fiction slash fantasy time travel slash romance series to pass the time. I ended up watching five seasons in a month and a half, which is too much for a series with hour-long episodes, especially if for two of those weeks, you don’t have any human contact except your partner wearing a mask and leaving electrolytes outside the door.
Even now, I’m not even sure how deeply I like this show, but do I need to keep up with it? Absolutely yes. And do I think of the characters as my “family” in that oftentimes I don’t really care what they’re doing or saying, but I just like that we’re all hanging around together? Even more of a yes.
Now, with this latest loosely sci-fi YA show, it was even worse. Because this was one of those shows that got canceled prematurely so I knew even when I started it, things were not looking good for me. Not just because of the plot but also knowing that besides this one season, there would be no more show to watch. And we all know dystopian shows never wrap up in one season. You’re lucky if they wrap up in eleven seasons. And you’re lucky if you get any concrete explanations for anything whatsoever.
The thing that really drives me bam-bam-bananas with teen shows is I completely fall back into my 13- to 17-year-old self when watching them—same unrealistic taste in guys, same abject fear and mistrust of anyone or anything popular, same need to lurk on the periphery and obsessively track everything that is happening for future (?) use.
So here I am now, fully imprinted onto an entire school year of fictional teens, reading reviews and articles from years ago, trying to get one last hit of dopamine. The veil is thin when it comes to the adolescent state-of-mind. It’s just there under the surface, waiting to break out, like so much emotional acne.
Because the cold may be gone, but the memories? Those are gonna last a lifetime.
THE WEAKEST LINK
Here we are again, in the week between Christmas foofaraw and New Year’s hubbub. For those of us lucky enough to not have to work, I think of it as the lost week. It’s like the opposite of the 13th floor in that it’s technically there, but is it really?
I generally have wild fantasies for how this week will go. I will clean the house! I will learn a language! I will make amends with my pores!
Instead, what happens is I do one laundry, I watch a crime show set in Luxembourg, and I order an eyebrow pencil that’s the wrong color.
One thing I have done nonstop and without fail this entire week so far is check my emails.
It’s likely the slowest email week of the year and I can’t stop logging in and stopping on by and just checking in real quick and doing a little deleting and orgazinging (this spelling was unintentional, but wow, what a stunner) and combing through to make sure I didn’t miss one.
For months now, I’ve been slow on responding to emails. So I don’t know what’s going on. I guess maybe I thought I’d “catch up” this week. Which was real cute.
Because all I have done is open my email and refresh and refresh and refresh like I’m playing the slots. And boy, for a verb like refresh, it sure leaves you feeling dirty. And in the hopes of what exactly? I don’t know. What message could I possibly get this week that would be of consequence?
I mean, besides the one where I’m told I matter!!! Someone thought of me!!! I am still relevant to my social contacts!!!
Because from where I’m sitting, it’s just multiple blarps and shpurps A DAY from this company that makes extra warm socks I ordered once and holiday wishes from a dentist’s office I never went to in a neighborhood I lived in six years ago. On that note, HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ONE OF OUR FAVORITE SMILES!
(THIS WEEK A POLL FOR PAID SUBSCRIBERS BELOW—YOU WILL SEE IT IF THAT IS YOU)
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