Make me sick

I’m writing this in the big box book store where I plan on rushing up and putting a big sloppy kiss on the first stranger I see with nasty flu symptoms.

I’m going to swab their throat with my tongue and hope to inhale a virus that might lay me low for about seven good days.

I’m aching to be sick.

I don’t want N1H1, flesh-nibbling virus or, heaven forbid, anything venereal in nature.

I just want something that’ll force me to lay in bed for a week incapable of operating any machinery more complex than the remote. I want a Bubble Boy-like existence where my family, their faces worn with concern, bring me nothing but hot chicken soup and and the latest DVD requests and then scoot.

And I want my Mommy.

There is so much talk of disease and illness in the news today and it just makes me sick to know that none of it will probably wind up making me sick.

I never get sick and I think my good health is killing me.

Because of the silly way I earn my living, I never do what anyone would consider real work. No set hours. No real obligations.

The ironic trade-off is, because I never work, I’m never off.

My mind is always racing to think up a new book project -- one that might, gee, actually sell. So when other people are home hours after punching out, I’m sitting in my basement tapping out query letters or polishing manuscripts.

I don’t know what it’s like to enjoy uninterrupted down time.

Plus, I’m a father of two young girls and the husband of one slightly older one. The trio has a whole host of pesky expectations of me that keep me from ever getting any satisfying couch time (and I should have seen that coming when I got mixed up with that gang).

Getting good and sick would change that.

They say God never gives us more than we can handle. If that’s the case, then He must think me a sissy.

I never get sick. Well, I mean I never get infected.

I get sick, but it’s always on purpose.

I have a theory that every man, woman and child on earth is proportioned the same amount of pain and you can’t do anything to duck it.

So some people are cursed with weak immune systems. And let’s be clear: I’m talking about garden variety illnesses here; not the catastrophic injuries always befalling innocents.

That’s just blatantly unfair and if God ever grants a press conference, I’m going to pin Him down on that one. Why I’m so healthy while some young mothers are stricken with exotic diseases that orphan babies is a cruel abomination.

I’m talking here about people who catch every cold, every flu and miss weeks of work every year for dainty health reasons.

Those are the people I envy -- and certainly not because they have actual jobs, an occupational situation I’ve for 17 years avoided like the plague.

I never catch anything that would leave me blissfully bedridden. Still, I understand the need to get my portion of pain so I make sure at least every couple of months or so I over-imbibe.

I get good and ripped, thus insuring the near-death experience known as the hangover ruins my weekend.

That balances the books on my otherwise healthy existence. But the problem with a good hangover is it generates no sympathy from my wife. She believes being hungover is no excuse for laying in bed all day watching John Wayne movies when I feel totally incapable of doing simple household chores like brushing my teeth.

The hangovers are tough on me, sure, but if I didn’t have them then I’d probably have to achieve my pain portion by whacking my thumb with a hammer. And, say what you want about hangovers, but they’re at least fun when you’re out earning them with the boys.

So I’m looking to get good and sick.

Ah, I spy an approaching carrier! Runny nose, watery eyes, a faint sheen of Blistex on the full, pouty lips to appear presentable when any doctor would certainly order sensible bed rest.

Little do they know their respiratory system is about to be attacked by the scruffy looking guy stationed behind the laptop at table 15.

I admit I’m feeling a little sheepish about what I’m about to do. He looks like a nice guy.

I just hope he’s a good kisser.