I hate the idea of being ill, but I have all the symptoms. It starts with my hearing, which seems to be on fire. Literally. Every supersonic sound from the sweet chirp of the morning birds, to the office guy whose footwork echoes clomp-clomp-clomp thru the office. Back and forth he walks, his heavy plod forewarning me that he is coming each time, and I remind myself as I see his cheerful grin and his cute little fucking plaid shirt; “Don’t lash out. It’s the sickness, not him”.
Add to that my eyes water with the morning sun coming thru the opaque shades of my office, taunting and teasing me. I want to be amidst the sunshine, but I can’t because I suffer from responsibility.
My brain is a squirrel on caffeinated crack. It zig-zags all over the place, stopping to twitch, before running to the next thought. Time is the enemy Monday thru Friday when it moves with the sluggish effort of cheap syrup on a dry stack of pancakes.
“I gots da fevah Ma”, I croak out in a voice somewhere between a rasp and a cough.
Spring Fever has arrived.
Signs of it hitting me started to arrive like subtle sniffles. I found myself foraging for old renaissance faire items as opening weekend loomed, seemingly never getting closer. Ok it wasn’t really foraging as much as shopping and it wasn’t old as much as new, but you get the point.
The patient vacationer in me, started to double and then triple book excursions. One cruise wasn’t enough. One night, without the aid of alcohol or anything, I binged and bought another, as if they were shoes I was finding on sale. Soon I found myself unable to wait the months required for the ship’s sailing, so I booked a spa type weekend with girlfriends. Ok it wasn’t as much spa type as it was drinking type, but again — you get the picture.
Every time I got in the car it seemed like the convertible top went on auto pilot and lowered itself. It might be that during working hours my sensitive hearing is on fire, but the moment that dinosaur announces it is quitting time, I’m sliding off his tail and blaring the music. All music. Any music. It’s the sickness I mouth to people in the parking lot who are jarred by the loudness.
I suddenly recall the drought of no holidays between MLK weekend and Memorial weekend, and I curse myself for using up so much of my vacation time around the Fall holidays. I turn my back to the sunshine, and pray for clouds. Fog. Anything to remind me I’m not half way thru March. Wake me up when it’s April. Wake me up when I have accrued enough vacation days to sleep in on a Friday or Monday. Wake me up when for the love of everything holy, the fucking pool is heated.
There is no cure for it. I just have to be a brave little toaster. Maybe put a piece of leather between my teeth while biting down and bearing the pain that is Spring Fever.