The flu kicked my ass.  It’s been years since I was sick in bed and not able to move. In my mind, I was immune. Forever.

It hit like a Mack truck. One minute I was on the phone with a colleague discussing my future millions in selling waist bands that burn fat… and the next I am sprawled on the bed cradling my cranium.  Hands, arms, and elbows, shooting with pain, wishing for death.

No, I did NOT get a flu shot. It’s not the measles or polio and there is NO CURE. I refuse to trust anything that “prevents” the inevitable. I’m a believer in the theory that too many anti-biotics or anti-whatever the fuck can cause the body to weaken and not put up a fight. I had faith that my trusted superpowers would hold true and fight the “mother effin” germs that had caused the apparent “epidemic” this season. (It’s all over the news but I’ve learned not to trust the media…and the internet…and Match.com. (Blog will follow soon.)

Cotton and dry mouth. How much hacking of one’s throat does it fucking take to make it better? Answer: none. And, yet, I annoy the hell out of my boyfriend and myself by performing it every 10 minutes. The dryer the louder. Tea does nothing. Although big props to my sweetie for making his special recipe that nearly knocked me off my comfortable couch and blanky. It was 99 parts rum, 0.5 honey, and 0.5 black chai tea. It was a stealth move. No warning until it hit my lips.  But truly welcome after the second sip. Buzzed watching Liam Neeson kick Eurotrash ass on FX.

My bones. My muscles. My skin. All felt like they were cornered in an alley and clubbed to death by the Russian mafia who, thank God, spared gutting and strangling me with my own intestines.

All this pain in only two days. When I was finally able to walk out of bed, I felt, well, SHAFTED. The big reveal is that I have been relying on getting the flu to lose a few extra pounds. Yes, I admit it. I’ve joked about it to friends for years always secretly hoping that it would become the reality that happened in 2005. I remember it like it was yesterday…

My face, no color and mahogany pale. My eyes, no movement and body still enough to be considered undead. My then husband was in shock that someone with so much “energy” could be conquered. Weak. Docile. Adorable to him, I think. He had to have secretly enjoyed it. Been meaning to ask him about that since the divorce. Admittedly, he was the best male nurse I ever had. And, don’t get me started with men and sickness. (Blog will follow soon).

Anyway, it was one of the best and worst weeks ever. I do remember agonizing about getting off the couch or bed to pee. I marched like the Walking Dead as if each step meant I’d be closer to bloody brains and guts. Every muscle tender and begging me to just stay fucking still and hold it already. But the day I finally woke up with no pain and excited to dress up again for work, I noticed that my size 8 pencil skirt from Express was loose. LOOSE! It twisted all the way from front to back when I walked! This was awesome, I tell you. Awe (to the f**king) some.

Although my new svelte body lasted only nearly a month, I shopped and hoped to stay that way. I was encouraged to watch what I ate because I had no appetite. And, being so self involved, I gave unwanted advice to those who complimented me. I could have written my own diet fad and memoir because I was in control! A few Primanti’s Bros. cap’n egg with cheese sandwiches later. I was back to the size 8 pencil staying in place.

My recent flu experience didn’t shave shit off my hips, belly, or ass. It was just a painful reminder that getting sick sucks. And, there is no antihistamine, anti-congestant, or lozenge that will heal or make you better. But, rum and Liam Neeson ain’t so bad.