Microfamous

Because Venezuelan spider monkeys told me to, that's why...
Today is the first time I've been awake for more than two hours in the past 72. No, I didn't go on a bender or sign up for the Swiss Sleep Cure. I caught a bronchial virus from a co-worker last week and it completely took me out this weekend. I'm talking 105-degree fever, shakes, hallucinations...the works. Saturday afternoon found me on the couch gently weeping while watching Lake Placid on A&E (quite possibly the worst movie ever).

On Saturday night, the fever kicked in and I huddled under the covers in my bed, having a strangely logical conversation with a wise spider monkey who was sitting cross-legged in the armchair across the room. He came off somewhat professorial, as if he wore spectacles and held a pipe, except without the spectacles and pipe. I'm sure what we discussed was important, but he was gone the next time I woke up and I can't remember the gist of it now. Of course, throughout the night I also had conversations with The Cat (we're so rarely on the same page), a pillow, something that was under my bed, and the host of an infomercial on television. The fever broke around 4 a.m. and I had to crawl to the shower because my hair and clothes were soaked with sweat. Then I had to change the bed linens, drink a gallon of water, and whimper myself back to sleep.

I'm still hacking a bit, but no longer discussing Occam's Razor theory with inanimate objects. And I lost some lbs., both from not being able to eat and sweating like I was wearing wool in August. My dear friend (and former roommate...and new homeowner) Michael emailed me this morning to ask if I was feeling better and my first response was "I lost 8lbs..." He responded: "Okay, the eight and the "L" sort of blend together so I read that as 81 pounds in four days...thought you were pulling a Nicole Richie." I wish, my friend. I wish my head were as big as a basketball, that I was six inches shorter, and that the veins stood out on my neck like an underfed racehorse. But since I probably can't get my hands on the veterinary drug she takes to deplete her body of every last fat cell, I'll have to settle for Nicole Richie's smaller-headed, taller, more educated sister. With a pot belly.

Seriously, though, I woke up this morning, pulled on my "wear-around-the-house" jeans, proceeded down the hall to the kitchen, and my pants fell down before I made it to the doorway. Instead of putting on a smaller pair, I just grabbed them at the waist, tucked the band once, and folded it over. Maybe I'll start a new fashion trend (let the mocking begin, Ida). Or maybe, taking into account my pallor and consumptive cough, people will just think I'm a street person.

Off to put more zinc up my nose...