It appears that if a germ comes within 5000 feet of me, they find me a welcome hostess and pack their bags and stay a while. Whatever ad agency designed the Mucinex Phelm Houseguests must have met the family invading my airways this past week.
In any event, I have been receiving some integrative therapy at the Whitaker Wellness Institute in Newport Beach, CA. I armed myself ahead of time with the checklist of components necessary for me to stay on track with this newest venture -- I have to understand what each treatment recommendation is for, how to do it, have support readily available when I am overwhelmed, be convenient and for 500 bonus points, find some level of humor in the event. Check, check, check ... and we're off again.Yesterday, while being treated for a bronchial infection that came in like a wrecking ball (this will be my only Miley Cyrus reference, promise), hooked up to a urine-yellow IV cocktail of potent vitamins and nutrients, a Midwestern senior citizen gentleman from Oklahoma, clad in his very best Costco Hawaiian shirt and cargo pants, strolled over to me and actually hit on me. He kept rubbing my arm, told me I had "purdy" eyes and asked me to dinner. Was I wrong to refuse on the grounds that I was on a catheter? He wasn't giving up too easily, either. Hey, "when you got it, you got it."
There you have it. I am a babe somewhere in this world right now. I have dusted off the disappointment that it happened here in the IV room and not, say, at the bar at Javier's on the PCH where all the Real Housewives of OC and other non-organically modified people hang out. Apparently there are some concentrated pheromones in that drip pouch and I am the wounded zebra on the plains of the Serengeti, dating world wise anyhow.
I'm not going to lie, I have been pretty ill for a while now and I am so very "over it". The very prospect of feeling better must have put a little spark back into my "purdy eyes" -- so no offense taken, Mr. Oklahoma. Looking around the room, I see a lot of folks who must have been cast as extras in the vintage flick "Cocoon" -- all those people seeking the elixir to bring back the jive in their dancing, willing to travel to an alien planet if it came to that. I get what they are after and have a little lump in my throat for the handful of non-chronologically-challenged patients who are also in isolation awaiting their own personal storms to pass, too.
