Super Bowl, Super Sick

It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, watch the hell out.

No, I’m not referring to the Bears completely wigging out after halftime and practically handing the Super Bowl over to the Colts. Honestly, that probably had a lot to do with that halftime show. I can’t be sure because I’m not an expert, but I think Prince’s performance was actually some sort of rain dance curse to ensure an Indiana victory. INDIANA? Seriously? That’s not even a real state! It’s just some place everyone ends up having a layover in.

I’m talking about that horrible post-party your body throws after a combination of too much partying, too much food, and too much alcohol.

I left the Super Bowl party feeling not only completely empty inside but also a little feverish. I chalked it up to a belly full of chicken wings, ranch, and Budweiser. I’m not one to complain about free booze, but if you’ve never had straight Budweiser, don’t treat it like Bud Light. THEY’RE NOT THE SAME. Bud Light will cause you to piss every thirty minutes, whereas Bud will sit in your stomach and refuse to move until it’s damn good and ready. They really should have warning labels on Bud: “Once consumed, individual may never leave the couch. Excretory system and brain temporarily disconnect. Do not use for regulatory BM purposes. Instead, seek Bud Light.”

"No one wants to help you when you’re puking sober. When you’re drunk, they feel bad for you."

So the next day I woke up feeling less than fantastic. That terrible glottal feeling in the back of my throat.

I hate it when you explain to someone you’re sick and they recommend taking a lot of vitamin C. “Drink lots of orange juice. Eat some grapefruit. Mix this vitamin C packet with eight ounces of water.” Because when you’re sick, putting anything in your stomach is the least appealing thing. You just want to scream at them, “I drink plenty of screwdrivers!! And those limes in my gin and tonics should be enough to keep that scurvy disease at bay.” But you’re too weak to start an argument so you thank them for their advice, as if the idea of vitamin C was actually breaking new medical ground.

Why are those stupid fucking Sudafed pills so hard to fucking open? WHY? WHY? You’re usually bedridden at your weakest moment. Getting off your bed to go take a whiz takes at least thirty minutes of motivation and encouragement from your bladder. I understand that the packaging company is trying to prevent little unsupervised kids from mistaking the pills for candy. Although if a kid actually started consuming Sudafed wouldn’t she discover it didn’t taste like a Smartee after the first chomp down? The sandpaper/cardboard box taste should be enough to make anyone spit that stuff out. Maybe I’m overestimating kids here, but what kid is going to sit there slowly consuming rancid tasting pills thinking they’re going to eventually find the one that tastes like chocolate?

Getting out the pills though just breaks your heart. You can’t push them out without peeling back the paper, and eventually you just whip them at the nearest wall, thinking, to hell with the cure. I’d rather sleep through the weekend with snot leaking out of my nose onto my pillowcase, letting it harden so that it feels like frozen boogers than have to peel it off. And it feels kind of cool when you do. But you’d never admit it to anyone that you think peeling snot off your face like you would a scab is cool. The point is, it’s best if you just have a good friend to break through the alien-like force-field of childproof plastic so you can actually get better rather than just dream about it.

Your bed may be the most uncomfortable bed on the planet, but when you’re sick it’s like sleeping on heaven. You could have springs sticking out and stabbing you in the leg, but for once you don’t mind because it’s your sanctuary. It’s the only place you can call your own. It’s the only place your roommates will refuse to go near out of fear you may inflict the hardened snot on the face on them. I think it’s only when you’re sick when you realize the true nature of your roommates. You could really dislike them, but if they stay quiet and do nice things for you, they have a good heart. If they continuously slam things around, play music, and leave the room with the DVD movie menu playing the same shrill song over and over again, you’ll know that if they could murder you and never get caught, they would.

Vomiting rates right up there with hospitalization with me. Dry heaving and having corn from last week come up through your nose? No thanks, I’d rather have an enema. And no one wants to help you when you’re puking sober. When you’re drunk they feel bad for you and hold back your hair, confident that it’s just twenty bucks worth of margarita Monday being propelled into the toilet. But when you’re sick, the same friends will treat you like a leper when you upchuck. They’ll stay with you, but there’ll be a door blocking them from the potential bubonic plague coming up through your throat. Every so often, between coughing and teary gags, they’ll knock and ask if you need anything—anything besides a hand to hold.

And honestly, who wants to clean up vomit? Not me. I’ll wash the chunks off my best friend’s face, make her chug some orange juice, change her sheets, and put her into bed. As soon as she’s asleep, that’s when I call the poison control center to have someone come over and remove any remnants that did not make it into the toilet. And I’ll charge it all to Mastercard, because not having to clean up puke is what’s truly priceless.