shore, sickness, resolution
21 February 2007
At the beginning of the year, when I was trying to figure out how I would spend my 2007 vacation days, I circled President’s Day weekend. With a proximity so close to Valentine’s Day and that Monday a firm holiday, I hoped that I would perhaps take a Trip of Love that weekend, perhaps with a bosomly-gifted woman, perhaps to a warm beach, perhaps to consume 150 pina coladas over the course of five or so days.
But as President’s Day weekend approached, it became apparent that this fantasy would not play itself out. I probably could have swung a beachy vacation financially, but there was no woman with whom I could share those pina coladas (or, more importantly, no woman who could help me bathe after I so horrifically sunburned my feet and hands, as these are the only body parts I expose while sunbathing). I contemplated going to the Caribbean alone, but this idea was shortly dismissed because it would be just about the saddest thing I’ve ever done. And there would be a greater than 60% chance I’d either get arrested for solicitation or contract another STD.
(If I’ve learned anything in my 27 years, it’s that STDs are like prison terms or homosexual encounters - one is enough, thank you very much. One is something you can deal with, get over, and, most importantly, pretend like it never happened and never mention again. But two…then you’ve got a problem.)
So I adjusted my President’s Day weekend plans to something a little more realistic. My aunt and uncle own a vacation house on the New Jersey shore in beautiful North Wildwood, so, if I wanted to, I could make the trip down there and at least be close to a beach (20° temperatures notwithstanding). And though I may not be able to share that weekend with a bosomly-gifted woman, I could enjoy something that makes me almost equally happy: doing a bunch of cocaine and throwing all of my aunt’s dishes and glassware into the ocean at 5am (while screaming, and then crying, and then screaming some more, and then finally going home to take a bath and burn myself with the scalding water).
As you might suspect, this became my plan. Early last week, I was making all the arrangements for a long weekend alone in North Wildwood – and I was getting excited. I love the shore in the off-season because I like being alone. Actually, I love being alone. Some of you may find this strange, but I think I’m sort of like a bipolar introvert-extrovert – I like to be either completely alone, preferably with no one I know within 60 miles; or I like to be surround by dozens of people, preferably at least one or two I have a chance of sleeping with. This is why I like living alone and have difficulty staying with my family in Philly (though they are awesome). I can handle zero people or 60 people, but don’t do so well with one or four around me for much of the time. This is also why my first marriage will last less than two years. But at least I realize this going into it and you bet your ass I’m getting a prenup. But enough talk about romance…
I have been sick for, I don’t know, about seven weeks now. Ever since January went from 60° days to 15° days, I’ve been dealing with a mild head cold. Not a problem for most people, but you’re forgetting: I am a 100% pussy when it comes to illness. When the sickness first struck me, I called my mom at work so much that she started pretending that it wasn’t her when she answered the phone:
Mom: "Brokerage, Kathy speaking."
Me: "Mom, it’s Jason again. I still feel sick and now my butt burns."
Mom: [using very high-pitched fake voice] "I mean, um, Layla speaking. Can I take a message?"
Still, I soldiered on, because there was nothing I could really do about it - of course you’re going to be sick if the temperature in your apartment is constantly 53° and you drink four gallons of beer a week. I mean, this is not rocket science, people. So saying "F it" to the sickness, I got preparations for the shore in order and planned to take a train down to Philly on Friday night, where I’d pick up a car and then drive to North Wildwood. Then, I’d spend the next few days basking in the cold loneliness of the Jersey shore in February. Sweet!
But early last week, I noticed the head cold I had been dealing with for weeks started to take a turn for the worse. It was one thing to spit up large balls of mucus in the privacy of my own home, but when I had to do so in my office, it was just plain unprofessional. I woke up Thursday feeling abysmal, but still went it to work (and it’s not even bonus season!). I spent the day coughing in my office, putting my head on my desk, and retching so loudly that numerous co-workers would pass by my office, stop to look in on me, then shake their heads disapprovingly and/or disgustedly. Not fun. But, again saying "F it", I still planned on leaving for the shore on Friday after work.
Until I woke up on Friday morning and was a mess. I called in sick at 8am, then went back to bed until 1pm. I dragged myself onto the couch, where I spent the next six (!) hours watching wildness and/or murder shows. If I was just a little bit sicker, I would have been content peeing in a gatorade bottle, but I had just enough strength to get myself over to the bathroom to pee. Otherwise, I didn’t move from the couch all day. In the evening, I went outside to run some errands (read: get ice cream and pizza), but that was it. I was immobile. And it was pretty fucking terrific.
The next day I woke up feeling better and did make it down the shore (though the trip nearly killed me). And, like I had hoped, it was incredible – from Saturday to Monday, I was completely alone, didn’t talk to hardly anyone, ate a lot and drank a little bit (wasn’t really feeling it in the booze department). I slept a ton. During the day I drove around and walked on the beach - in the f’ing snow – for awhile, which was lovely. I especially enjoyed going to breakfast and dinner by myself; for some reason, there is something purifying about going to an "Island Cafe" in the middle of winter, sitting alone with a beer and some crab cakes, and watching a man in a Hawaiian shirt sing and play "Margaritaville" to eight people, all locals. It was probably one of my favorite vacations ever. And yes, I realize how sad that statement is.
I returned to the city on Monday night, feeling better than I had in weeks, and ate a nice chicken parm dinner to cap off a restful, recuperative and enjoyable weekend. Since I had been taking NyQuil every night for about two weeks, I needed a little help going to sleep, and so took so Xanax at about 9pm and it was lights out by 10pm. Narcotic-induced sleep: the perfect end to a perfect weekend.
And then I woke up five hours later and shit like a maniac. And then did so again three hours later. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Um…repeat.
I’m not a doctor, but I think that chicken parm gave me some sort of case of mild food poisoning. I came to work on Tuesday but can safely say that I spent more time on the toilet than I did at my desk. Not only was I shitting immediately after eating, but I probably could have eaten a lump of raw ground beef and four perfectly cooked hamburgers would have appeared from my colon twenty minutes later.
It’s been a long, slow road to recovery since then, but I’m feeling better. However, I’ve been getting intense stomach pains, kinda like my stomach is growling, but it is growling and scraping and pulling at my insides. Again, I’m not a doctor, but I think this means that in the Feces Fest of the past day and a half I must have pooped out a kidney and possibly a large stretch of intestine. So naturally I’ve been hitting the pepto pretty hard. The good news is that it’s working, so if you’re into investments, I would get in now on Procter & Gamble, because I will be spending a substantial amount of my income on their products until this goes away (so for the next few days/weeks/months/ever).
All this sickness, though not severe (save for the bleeding ulcer that is slowly killing me), gives me a bit of pause to take stock of my life. This weekend, I "took it easy" and still drank almost a case of beer, probably. Every once in a while I’ll get an email from a reformed lush who reads this site who either wanted to clean up or lost a bet and had to give up alcohol for a month. They’ll write to me and say how great it felt not to poison themselves, how much awesome hungover-less sleep they were able to get, how nice it was to remember everything, how much money they saved, etc. And sometimes, I think it sounds pretty nice. I would certainly like to save some money and I do like sleep and hate hangovers. And I’m pretty good at will power – I was a vegetarian for a month last year and also dieted and lost 35+ pounds (which I’ve kept off, six months later, by the way). I don’t know if I could do a month, but I think I could do a week, at least.
So that’s it: I’m not going to drink again – not a single drop – until March 1. No beer when I get home, no wine with dinner, no vodka red bulls to kick start the night, and certainly no whiskey when it is apparent that I will not be having sex on that particular evening and thus have no use for my (erect, ejactulateable) penis. But I can do this. I know I can. I ask only for your prayers and support (and drugs, if you have them). This will not be a permanent thing, but just a stretch of sobriety to see what happens and see if I feel better. Wish me luck.
[Actually, I have friends in town this weekend coming from Boston. So we might have to exempt the weekend, because I would be a drag if they're pounding beers and I'm sipping ginger ale.
[Also, Nicole and I have our monthly dinner tonight, and I always get a whiskey drink before the meal. Since it's a tradition, we'll also have to exempt tonight.]
[And Thursday night I have plans to go out as well for a friend's birthday. I can't not drink then - what kind of cretin doesn't enjoy a birthday drink with the celebrant?]
[So that's no drinking on Sunday through Wednesday of next week. It's gonna be tough, but I think I can make it. Again, wish me luck.]
But as President’s Day weekend approached, it became apparent that this fantasy would not play itself out. I probably could have swung a beachy vacation financially, but there was no woman with whom I could share those pina coladas (or, more importantly, no woman who could help me bathe after I so horrifically sunburned my feet and hands, as these are the only body parts I expose while sunbathing). I contemplated going to the Caribbean alone, but this idea was shortly dismissed because it would be just about the saddest thing I’ve ever done. And there would be a greater than 60% chance I’d either get arrested for solicitation or contract another STD.
(If I’ve learned anything in my 27 years, it’s that STDs are like prison terms or homosexual encounters - one is enough, thank you very much. One is something you can deal with, get over, and, most importantly, pretend like it never happened and never mention again. But two…then you’ve got a problem.)
So I adjusted my President’s Day weekend plans to something a little more realistic. My aunt and uncle own a vacation house on the New Jersey shore in beautiful North Wildwood, so, if I wanted to, I could make the trip down there and at least be close to a beach (20° temperatures notwithstanding). And though I may not be able to share that weekend with a bosomly-gifted woman, I could enjoy something that makes me almost equally happy: doing a bunch of cocaine and throwing all of my aunt’s dishes and glassware into the ocean at 5am (while screaming, and then crying, and then screaming some more, and then finally going home to take a bath and burn myself with the scalding water).
As you might suspect, this became my plan. Early last week, I was making all the arrangements for a long weekend alone in North Wildwood – and I was getting excited. I love the shore in the off-season because I like being alone. Actually, I love being alone. Some of you may find this strange, but I think I’m sort of like a bipolar introvert-extrovert – I like to be either completely alone, preferably with no one I know within 60 miles; or I like to be surround by dozens of people, preferably at least one or two I have a chance of sleeping with. This is why I like living alone and have difficulty staying with my family in Philly (though they are awesome). I can handle zero people or 60 people, but don’t do so well with one or four around me for much of the time. This is also why my first marriage will last less than two years. But at least I realize this going into it and you bet your ass I’m getting a prenup. But enough talk about romance…
I have been sick for, I don’t know, about seven weeks now. Ever since January went from 60° days to 15° days, I’ve been dealing with a mild head cold. Not a problem for most people, but you’re forgetting: I am a 100% pussy when it comes to illness. When the sickness first struck me, I called my mom at work so much that she started pretending that it wasn’t her when she answered the phone:
Mom: "Brokerage, Kathy speaking."
Me: "Mom, it’s Jason again. I still feel sick and now my butt burns."
Mom: [using very high-pitched fake voice] "I mean, um, Layla speaking. Can I take a message?"
Still, I soldiered on, because there was nothing I could really do about it - of course you’re going to be sick if the temperature in your apartment is constantly 53° and you drink four gallons of beer a week. I mean, this is not rocket science, people. So saying "F it" to the sickness, I got preparations for the shore in order and planned to take a train down to Philly on Friday night, where I’d pick up a car and then drive to North Wildwood. Then, I’d spend the next few days basking in the cold loneliness of the Jersey shore in February. Sweet!
But early last week, I noticed the head cold I had been dealing with for weeks started to take a turn for the worse. It was one thing to spit up large balls of mucus in the privacy of my own home, but when I had to do so in my office, it was just plain unprofessional. I woke up Thursday feeling abysmal, but still went it to work (and it’s not even bonus season!). I spent the day coughing in my office, putting my head on my desk, and retching so loudly that numerous co-workers would pass by my office, stop to look in on me, then shake their heads disapprovingly and/or disgustedly. Not fun. But, again saying "F it", I still planned on leaving for the shore on Friday after work.
Until I woke up on Friday morning and was a mess. I called in sick at 8am, then went back to bed until 1pm. I dragged myself onto the couch, where I spent the next six (!) hours watching wildness and/or murder shows. If I was just a little bit sicker, I would have been content peeing in a gatorade bottle, but I had just enough strength to get myself over to the bathroom to pee. Otherwise, I didn’t move from the couch all day. In the evening, I went outside to run some errands (read: get ice cream and pizza), but that was it. I was immobile. And it was pretty fucking terrific.
The next day I woke up feeling better and did make it down the shore (though the trip nearly killed me). And, like I had hoped, it was incredible – from Saturday to Monday, I was completely alone, didn’t talk to hardly anyone, ate a lot and drank a little bit (wasn’t really feeling it in the booze department). I slept a ton. During the day I drove around and walked on the beach - in the f’ing snow – for awhile, which was lovely. I especially enjoyed going to breakfast and dinner by myself; for some reason, there is something purifying about going to an "Island Cafe" in the middle of winter, sitting alone with a beer and some crab cakes, and watching a man in a Hawaiian shirt sing and play "Margaritaville" to eight people, all locals. It was probably one of my favorite vacations ever. And yes, I realize how sad that statement is.
I returned to the city on Monday night, feeling better than I had in weeks, and ate a nice chicken parm dinner to cap off a restful, recuperative and enjoyable weekend. Since I had been taking NyQuil every night for about two weeks, I needed a little help going to sleep, and so took so Xanax at about 9pm and it was lights out by 10pm. Narcotic-induced sleep: the perfect end to a perfect weekend.
And then I woke up five hours later and shit like a maniac. And then did so again three hours later. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Um…repeat.
I’m not a doctor, but I think that chicken parm gave me some sort of case of mild food poisoning. I came to work on Tuesday but can safely say that I spent more time on the toilet than I did at my desk. Not only was I shitting immediately after eating, but I probably could have eaten a lump of raw ground beef and four perfectly cooked hamburgers would have appeared from my colon twenty minutes later.
It’s been a long, slow road to recovery since then, but I’m feeling better. However, I’ve been getting intense stomach pains, kinda like my stomach is growling, but it is growling and scraping and pulling at my insides. Again, I’m not a doctor, but I think this means that in the Feces Fest of the past day and a half I must have pooped out a kidney and possibly a large stretch of intestine. So naturally I’ve been hitting the pepto pretty hard. The good news is that it’s working, so if you’re into investments, I would get in now on Procter & Gamble, because I will be spending a substantial amount of my income on their products until this goes away (so for the next few days/weeks/months/ever).
All this sickness, though not severe (save for the bleeding ulcer that is slowly killing me), gives me a bit of pause to take stock of my life. This weekend, I "took it easy" and still drank almost a case of beer, probably. Every once in a while I’ll get an email from a reformed lush who reads this site who either wanted to clean up or lost a bet and had to give up alcohol for a month. They’ll write to me and say how great it felt not to poison themselves, how much awesome hungover-less sleep they were able to get, how nice it was to remember everything, how much money they saved, etc. And sometimes, I think it sounds pretty nice. I would certainly like to save some money and I do like sleep and hate hangovers. And I’m pretty good at will power – I was a vegetarian for a month last year and also dieted and lost 35+ pounds (which I’ve kept off, six months later, by the way). I don’t know if I could do a month, but I think I could do a week, at least.
So that’s it: I’m not going to drink again – not a single drop – until March 1. No beer when I get home, no wine with dinner, no vodka red bulls to kick start the night, and certainly no whiskey when it is apparent that I will not be having sex on that particular evening and thus have no use for my (erect, ejactulateable) penis. But I can do this. I know I can. I ask only for your prayers and support (and drugs, if you have them). This will not be a permanent thing, but just a stretch of sobriety to see what happens and see if I feel better. Wish me luck.
[Actually, I have friends in town this weekend coming from Boston. So we might have to exempt the weekend, because I would be a drag if they're pounding beers and I'm sipping ginger ale.
[Also, Nicole and I have our monthly dinner tonight, and I always get a whiskey drink before the meal. Since it's a tradition, we'll also have to exempt tonight.]
[And Thursday night I have plans to go out as well for a friend's birthday. I can't not drink then - what kind of cretin doesn't enjoy a birthday drink with the celebrant?]
[So that's no drinking on Sunday through Wednesday of next week. It's gonna be tough, but I think I can make it. Again, wish me luck.]
