I’m pretty certain that I’m actually going to live now, which is a good thing. Because remember when you were a kid, and your own mama went down with the flu? Remember how she wrapped herself in that bright red, faux-animal-fur robe that y’all bought for her at the Pamida for Christmas, and went back to bed? And then? Do you remember how y’all just kept coming into her bedroom and clambering up on the bed to ask questions like, “Are you going to make dinner tonight?”
Apparently that is something that not only happened in the ’70s. It hasn’t skipped any generations, because I’m here to tell you that it’s an issue that’s still going strong.
Does anyone want to know what it’s like to have a compression wrap on your leg? I thought I would share exactly how to replicate one, in case you’re bored over the holiday weekend and want to try it out.
Find some clay mud. Don’t use pricy modeling clay from Hobby Lobby, because it’s too fine of a grade. Use some soil with a high clay consistency. This will also ensure that you might get a little debris in it, like a couple of pebbles and decomposing leaves.
Apply the clay liberally to your leg, from the toes to the knee.
Sit in the sun and let it bake a bit, until it has hardened and given up any flexibility that you had hoped for.
Now wrap a layer of Saran Wrap around it. Don’t be shy with the plastic wrap. If you’re worried about the expense, buy some at the Dollar Store. Keep wrapping until the roll is entirely gone.
Next, buy some ants. Since winter has hit in our area, you may have to start looking on those UNIQUE CHRISTMAS GIFTS FOR EVERY CHILD ON YOUR LIST websites, where they sell things like ant farms. Buy one of those. Lift the top edge of the Saran Wrap very carefully and insert forty ants. Let them do their business of tunneling through the dried mud. Let them make their trails, so that their tiny ant feet make contact with your bare skin. If you’re capable of squishing one through the Saran Wrap, you haven’t used enough. Apply more layers, if this is the case.
Leave all of that on for a few days. Make an attempt to sleep in flannel sheets at night.
No one will even question you when you show up at the pharmacy in your red, faux-fur bathrobe, banging on the counter like a mad woman and demanding a nerve pill or nine.
And? Shall we talk about the flannel sheets? Can we visit that issue again?
I’m pretty sure that the debate of flannel sheets vs. cotton sheets is in Revelation. I think it’s halfway through the book, when John wrote, “And then I saw heaven opened up again, and the beds of all the angels were made up with crisp, cotton sheets. They were sewn with purple threads and smelled of the sun. A great light came from them, and the petals of flowers fell upon them. Then seven beds were revealed to me that were made up with flannel sheets. These beds were the beds of the seven-headed badgers, that were snapping and biting and flying. Smoke poured forth from the flannel sheeted beds and seared the eyes of the seven-headed badgers, blinding them. Their fur caught fire, and they turned to ash, before my very eyes.”
I managed to fail “Duct Tape The Garbage Bag To The Leg” yesterday when I showered. I left a gap open at the back somehow, right behind my knee. That Hefty filled with water, like a basement on the great American flood plains. I called the Wound Clinic, and they said, “Cut it off. You’re ready to be done. Just wear your support hose.”
And the angels sang a chorus of GLORY, GLORY, HALLELUJAH.
So there was THAT this weekend. Freedom from the compression wrap (that worked some miracles on me) and the twenty-four-hour flu, where I managed to sweat like a furnace in the flannel sheets, until I got out of bed at 2:00 in the morning and yanked them off of my bed. (Hubs had already migrated to the sofa. He mumbled something about WHO CAN SLEEP WITH ALL THIS TOSSING AND TURNING BESIDE ME?)
But there were other things this weekend, too.
We took Thing 2 ice skating for the very first time.
That’s an old helmet, people.
This is what most of the ice skating session looked like:
The other half of our time at the rink looked like this, when Thing 2 said, “Dadgumit! I am TOTALLY man enough to skate without this dumb helmet! It weighs more than I do, and it keeps snapping my neck backwards!”
Don’t judge us.
Afterwards, there was wine for everyone that had reached an appropriate age.
On Saturday, little Cousin H turned two, so we shuffled ourselves out to her house, so that we could party like it was 1999.
Or even like it was 2013, while we kept an eye on the clock, because BEDTIME!
And then Cousin H said, “Stop, Thing 2! I don’t need your help with my presents! In fact, when I blew out my birthday candle and made my wish, I said in my head, PLEASE, BIRTHDAY FAIRIES, KEEP THING 2 OUT OF MY GIFTS!”
Thing 2 saw them when they were unwrapped and hollered, “Orphaned boys! I will love them and pet them and hug them and name them all George!”
There were actually some tears when we told Thing 2 that he had to leave H’s boys behind when we headed for home.
Full, as in FULL. Not just, “Wow. You have a little brownie caught in your braces.” Full, as in, “Um, Howard? Yeah… There’s an entire 9″x13″ pan of brownies hanging out of your brackets.”
Ain’t nobody got time to see that.
Y’all are welcome.
We came home from the birthday party on Saturday night, and I announced that, “My word! I am not feeling overly well all of a sudden.”
Forty-five minutes later, I was at 101.2 and sharing a bed with the seven-headed badgers who were smoking down to ash, while I tried to scratch and claw the ants crawling around beneath the Saran Wrap on my left leg.
Good times, y’all. Good times.