So Sorry
I apologize, dear friends and followers, but I have not prepared anything for your reading fodder this week.
It is ironic indeed that I made it through the entire active Covid pandemic without getting caught in the viral hysteria but I have been struggling with various health issues since then. No major problems, I assure you, just niggling, piggling little aches and twinges and weakness. This week’s main attraction: Non-Covid Flu, Round 2.
Unfortunately, my wife is looking at these incidents as an opportunity to be smothering and controlling. (She would not make a good Stoic philosopher since she mistakenly believes that dominating me is within her zone of control, a notion I resist vigorously but also take advantage of.) Lots of naps - sleep is the best medicine - and lots of fluids… including an occasional cup of real coffee or even a tiny jot of Jack Daniel’s when my wife is not looking. (Being illegal makes them taste so much better.)
Insanity is hereditary; you get it from your kids. So, too, is the flu hereditary - especially when your son goes to a public elementary school which are notorious Petri dishes anyway. A couple of weeks ago, both my son and I had some form of the flu (non-Covid) which bothered him for a full 24 hours, before a rapid and complete recovery in the following 24 hours. But I was sicker, longer, and took far longer to recover. (Gotta set a good example for our children, you know.) Then, before I was fully operational again, we were both struck with another bout of the flu, again, similar to a nasty cold. “A nasty cold” sounds innocent enough but, when you are still feeling like Rocky in Round 9 from the first movie, it can be equally flooring. (Bonus points awarded…) Did that metaphor come out right? As I said, I am feeling goofy so I guess I can apply for an artistic license exemption, claiming fatigue.
Besides, Torgeir has not yet graced my inbox with a report of his adventures in India and Thailand. (Hasn’t sent an urgent request for bail money and character references either so I presume he and Esteban are okay.)
So I will continue to struggle upward, in a literary sense, before resuming my usual fluency and grace, leaving behind a carnage of mangled metaphors and painfully forced alliteration. No poetry, though.
Stay tuned. I’m sure I will be much better by the next newsletter. If not, there is always my collection of cat videos to fill your dull and humdrum lives while I continue my recovery. (Bonus points awarded…)