It's official: as of today, I've had a fever for two years. After a battery of tests, having drunk gallons of radioactive crap (to see if any naughty cells light up under the MRI), and after consulting with at least seven physicians, the conclusion is that the fevers are "rheumatoid in nature." As in rheumatic fever, a 19th century, Jacob Riis meets Jane Austen type of disease. I don't even have a chaise longue to go with it, nor am I inclined to take the cure at the seaside. I suppose the vapors are next. Or possibly some scurvy?
Strangely enough, I've got this weird urge to celebrate this nonsense - I mean, hell, if you've gotta be sick, you may as well have fun with it. So this morning, I took it upon myself to look at that quaint old list of anniversary presents. Number two (heh heh, you said, "number two") doesn't get you anything too glam. Research tells me that the traditional gift for a second anniversary is cotton (?); the modern gift is china (supposing, I guess, that you've managed to break some of the china that you received as a present the first time around). But cotton? Not sure what to do with this.
So...tomorrow I am off to California for a few days of relaxation, ocean-gazing and Young Ones videos with my dear friend Ellen and her family. The car service will be arriving at some insane hour tomorrow morning (yes, it'll still be dark out), so there's much to do today to get ready. Being ridiculously organized (it's a curse, believe me) I made a list, checked it twice, and I'm already sitting here stressing about the decision to check my wheelie bag or not. And of course, stressing about whether said car service will even be able to find my apartment, given my mystery address. If my friends have trouble finding me, I don't have a whole lot of faith in a stranger in a Town Car.
And of course there's the garden-variety flight anxiety that afflicts me every time I board one of these winged creatures. The iPod is queued up, the xanax is in my purse, but I can't shake the scary realization that I booked: A nonstop flight. To California. On a Tuesday morning. On what is supposed to be a beautiful sunny day. I realize very few people remember those details, but sometimes it's the little things you can't shake that come back to haunt you.
I'm going to comfort myself with a toasted bialy now. Tell me I'm being paranoid.
love, love, love...ALR
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