This Ginger's on Fire
Now that I have made it to my mid-thirties, the contents of my medicine cabinet are quite a bit different from what they used to be. Gone are my twenties and the expensive acne creams, cheap colognes and bristled hairbrushes of my youth. Now, behind my bathroom mirror lies a vast collection of topical treatments. Ointments, rubs, gels and salves for a variety of ailments, including (but not limited to): sunburns, allergic reactions, muscle pain, fungal infections, atopic dermatitis and the odd crab infestation.
Recently, in light of the global pandemic, I added a brand-new accessory to my cabinet: a thermometer. Given that fevers are out of fashion these days, sorry Peggy Lee, I decided it was a good idea to keep abreast of my body temperature on the regular. Popping the thermometer sensor under my tongue each morning, I wait patiently for the two beeps and green light flashing I am okay. Then, once I am given the go-ahead, I proceed directly to a cup of coffee.
All of this worked great up until last week … when my green light turned red. When I awoke that morning, I noticed three aspects of my wake-up routine that were distinctly off. (1) My muscles were sorer than usual. Hmm, I thought, I must have over did it at the gym six months ago. (2) In place of its usual fog, my brain was racing over 200bpm. Hmm, I remember drinking rosé last night, but not snorting cocaine. And (3) my water glass was empty.
“I have worn a mask. I have sanitized my hands 600,000 times at work. So much so, I have legitimate concern they are going to melt off before this pandemic is over.”
Sitting up straight in bed, I massaged the back of my neck with the palm of my right hand before hoisting myself up like a man three times his age. My legs as rigid as stilts, I shuffled to the washroom, turned on the light and reached for my digital aid. Depressing my tongue and sealing my lips, I waited for the two beeps that had become my saving grace. Seconds passed like hours before I heard the first BEEP, followed by a second and then, sweet Meryl, a third.
“THREE BEEPS! Lord on a Mountain!” I yelped, “there must be some kind of mistake here.” Taking a deep breath, I took the thermometer out from under my tongue and slowly lifted its digital display to the level of my eye. Aghast, my jaw nearly dropped when I saw the temperature staring back at me: 38.3° “No, no, no, no, no!” I scrambled into the living room like I had just been cast in a Tennessee Williams play. “This cannot be!”
Taking laps around the coffee table, I could not control the internal monologue that ensued. I cannot be getting sick. After all, I have been so careful! I have worn a mask. I have sanitized my hands 600,000 times at work. So much so, I have legitimate concern they are going to melt off before this pandemic is over. I have stayed in! Okay well, fine that is not entirely true, not even close. I practically live at the Sylvia. Becoming dizzy, I debated sticking my head in the freezer, but then reasoned it was probably a better idea to crawl back under the covers.
Hakuna Matata Rugged, just go back to sleep and soon you will awake to discover this was all a bad dream. Three hours later my eyelids opened again. This time, I felt much warmer than the last. As if every part of my bed was plugged into an electrical socket. Returning to the washroom, I repeated my routine and nearly dropped to the ground when the thermometer started beeping and did not stop. Red light. 40.0°
To be continued.
