flush for fantasy

I seriously thought I had Lyme disease. Never mind that we weren’t anywhere near any wooded areas in Denver or Boulder, or that Nic and Marcy’s cats are indoor cats, or that I don’t really know the symptoms of Lyme disease.

But whenever I feel an imbalance, and in most cases it’s pretty mild--I like to say the best worst-case scenario I can imagine. Usually I just say I’m dying, because that is an effective and funny enough catch all.

I’m not a hypochondriac by any means. Sure, if I get sick, I feel a slight physical betrayal at being mortal. Like, “how dare you get sick, you defective bag of bones and tissue, arteries, ligaments and synapses??”

I’m not dying, I just took too much Solgar Ultimate B+C Complex Stress Formula on an empty stomach before breakfast at Dot’s, where the waitress wore an interesting contraption of a t-shirt masquerading as a bustier and accidentally spilled water all over the adjacent table, but laughed it off easily and I loved her for it.

First it felt like someone had a heat lamp on my left ear. Then the flush took over and my body started itching in sections. Ankles, legs, neck, arms, wrists, ankles, arms, wrists, legs, stomach, hips, and repeat—this is incredibly distracting when you’re trying to contribute to a friendly conversation before eggs and biscuits. It was a symphony of pins and needles, which I imagine is akin to a mild episode of being on speed.

Further inspection in the bathroom showed raised pink streaks on a lot of my legs and hips from scratching. I felt better after eating. Pat said my natural color was returning--my cheeks had been rosier than usual.

Totally dying.