Ok so here's my cautionary tale *cough* rant *cough cough* as to why people should always just go home, if they can, when they're sick. Our story begins at 6pm on a sunny April day. I had just woken up from a nap and realized that I was having one of my rare bout of hunger since I had been diagnosed with the demonic infection we have named "Mononucleosis". So I half pull/fling myself out of bed and walk across my messy room to the refrigerator to find that my roommate has eaten my last yogurt. My last goddamn yogurt that I had previously told him was, and I quote, "The only thing I have been able to eat. So please don't eat them." But I digress. I very soon realized that I would need to either go to the store and find some food, or waste away more than I already had.
After a 15 minute trudge to the Madison Fresh Market, I found myself in the soup isle, trying to choose between the ridiculous number of canned assorted vegetables and animal broth. Eventually I elected Chunky Brand Bacon and Potato Soup. I was so excited on the way home, the thought of feeling well enough to consume solid food making me almost giddy. I get back to Witte, get comfortable again, put the soup in my favorite ceramic bowl my mother had gotten me and start microwaving my soup. After a strenuous 2 minute wait my soup was ready. Now keep in mind that the walk to the store, the choosing of the soup, and the walking back to the dorm, had pretty much depleted my energy reserves for the next few days, so I was exhausted. I get out the bowl set it down, go to get a spoon, go back to the bowl etc. nothing about this scenario had gone wrong yet. Then the unthinkable happened. Just as I was about to sit down on my futon to watch Tom & Jerry and enjoy my soup, my knee struck the futon at an odd angle. The bowl sloshed threateningly, I tried to overcompensate with another balancing act, the bowl sloshes all over me dousing me with hot soup, then I heard a soul wrenching crash. I look at the floor, and my favorite bowl, along with the remainder of the soup I had worked so hard for, was strewn across my floor.
I cried for an embarrassingly long time over the remains of my would be meal. I think in my delirium it symbolized the complete loss of all independence and/or dignity I had left (dramatic I know, but I was starving, exhausted, and my throat was on the verge of implosion). Cut to a few hours later and I'm in my mom's car headed home...where someone more competent could make me food.
I really have no idea what Pollan would think about this story. I feel that he wouldn't have much of a reaction due to the fact that I DIDN'T GET TO EAT THE FREAKING SOUP. So yes, children, always go home when you're sick. don't try to tough it out.
No comments:
Post a Comment