Why I Hate Nature

As you may know, in the past six months I seem to be plagued with vaguely pathological illnesses of an almost biblical level of pestilence. Some say that it's just a bad year to be sick. Still others say I'm genetically predisposed to catch whatever germs are making the rounds. Personally, I wonder if making agar plates of potentially oog-causing microbes in my Microbiology class is the factor behind my most recent plague. Either way, I've been a whole lotta sicky and I don't like it.

Because my most recent disease (The Dread Sinus Infection Roberts) had me feeling as if I would either A-pass out from the pain and pressure or B-throw up from the rushing fluids when I lifted my head an inch or two off the pillow or couch cushion, I was pretty effectively homebound until my wonderful, amazing antibiotics started kicking some bacterium ass. I don't do well with "homebound" and would make a really bad shut-in. Needless to say, by the time I felt better I was ready to move. I didn't care where, just a change of scenery posthaste would be amazing. So I decided to take a short walk. If nothing else was accomplished by it, maybe I could swap out some of my microbial infestation for clean, fresh air and healing energy.

I laced up my Nikes, put on my coat and gloves, stuffed my phone in my hoodie pocket and headed out the door. We've had some really nice weather here lately so the sidewalks are actually passable, and even though the air was cold it smelled vaguely springy. I had to stop every twenty paces or so to blow my nose, but at that point I wasn't complaining. I was upright, outside and feeling pretty human. Nothing in the world could bring me down!

I've always joked that if you expect the worst, you'll be pleased by the best. My trip to the Great Outdoors may have gone better if I'd remembered that particular mantra.

About ten minutes after I left my house, I paused under a pine tree to blow my nose for about the fiftieth time. Halfway into my nasal trumpet rendition of "Ave Maria", something fuzzy yet vaguely solid and sinister-feeling hit the side of my head, bounced off my shoulder and landed at my side. When I looked down to see what had assaulted me via the heavens, I screamed like a horror movie star being disemboweled by an ice pick and didn't let up for what felt like fifteen minutes.

It was a dead squirrel.

A dead. Squirrel. AND IT HAD LANDED ON MY HEAD.

I kicked out my foot and did a speedy about face for home, doing a half-running fat girl hybrid waddle that left my fillings rattled and my nose dripping a snot faucet that rivaled Niagara Falls in both duration and intensity. Once I was deadbolted behind the door and safe from any more assaults by dead falling tree rats, I stripped off my clothes and tossed them into the basement, ran through the house (taking out at least one cat in the commute) and jumped into the shower. I cranked the water up as hot as I could stand it and scrubbed until I was sure I'd eradicated any and all traces of Hanta virus, mange, rabies or whatever had transformed the poor creature from "alive and kicking" to "deceased and falling out of trees onto innocent pedestrians" from my person.

To make matters worse, that night Boy Wonder brought home a note saying someone in his class has head lice. I may never feel completely clean or stop itching within the confines of this lifetime.