Like Eating Glass

In those first few seconds where we realize we are alive again, things can get really interesting. Think about opening your eyes and waking up in the hotel bed, those few seconds until your brain reminds you that these unfamiliar surroundings are supposed to be there; that you're not home. There's a terrifying satisfaction I get every time this happens to me. It is one of those small details of life that I never cease to get a real kick out of, even when it's something terrible, like waking up with a throat full of bloody glass.

I am living with the world's worst sore throat this morning, as I croak in pain and attempt to dislodge the burning substance that has taken residence in my mouth. There's something about being sick that makes you feel alive. It also gives you something to look forward to. I am looking forward to a morning of waking up without the sore throat, but I know for a fact that after the first or second morning, I will completely take my health for granted until it happens again. But I guess that's the beauty of the human condition. Once we get what we want, there are no limits to our sense of entitlement.

I've lived a sickly little life. I can distinctly remember having spent an entire birthday on a mattress in the empty bedroom of the new apartment my family had just moved into. I slept a lot, waking up intermittently to consume Gatorade and crackers, throw up, and read comic books. My dad would come check up on me between moving things, which I now recognize as one of the nicest things he has ever done. As I get older, I realize more and more how much like him I am becoming, and I hate having to do things for other people, even moreso after having performed any sort of taxing physical labor (doubly so for any scenarios involving staircases).

I used to get step throat seasonally, every September, the way other boys accepted the beginning of baseball season or high school band competitions as annual events that we could count on to mark the passage of months. I popped Tetracycline like M&Ms, to the point where antibiotics won't do much for me these days. Penicillin and I began sneaking off behind the boathouse during my more serious episodes. To this day, my sister needs about a gallon of water to swallow a mere Tylenol capsule, but I mastered the art of swallowing pills dry by age ten. Of course, nothing could compare to the beauty of getting a shot. I couldn't figure out why the other kids at the doctor's office had to be coddled and offered lollipops before being dragged into the exam room to bend over on those tissue-paper covered beds. Didn't they know how quickly they'd start feeling better as opposed to the results they'd get from drinking the bubble-gum flavored liquid medicine? Even as an 8-year old, I realized that children are idiots.