Thursday, April 07, 2005

Hit and run. Unless you are Colin Firth.

I believe that different buildings contain different germs.

For 26 years I taught in the same building with the same people and I was hardly ever sick. Not so much as a bad cold, most years. Even when they dug all those rotting bird carcasses out of my venting system, I didn't get sick. When I realized I'd been breathing deeply of air filtered through carrion for several years, I almost puked; but I didn't get sick. Seven periods a day, 30-35 kids per period, sneezing and coughing and blowing their noses straight into the wastebasket and wafting their germs in my general direction, and I hardly ever sneezed back.

When you factor into this equation the fact that I have almost no immune system left, it's incredible.

But. Now I am in a different building. This building is full of adults and adult students. They use kleenex to blow their noses and they cover their mouths when they sneeze or cough. The building is clean and beautiful and well-kept. All the outside vents are screened to keep out birds. Everything is bright and new and in excellent working order.

And I have one of the worst colds I've ever had. I am MISERABLE. I'm snarfing down long-term cold capsules like there's no tomorrow. I'm drinking NyQuil right out of the bottle. I've put a box of Kleenex in every room, because when I need it, there's no time to get up and run to the bathroom for a tissue. It's now or my sleeve. My eyes are watery and my nose has turned into one of those backyard fountains. You know, the kind that runs constantly and makes you have to go to the bathroom every thirty seconds when you try to sit out on your patio and listen to it.

I'm reminded of the time I put a sound machine in my classroom and turned it to 'tinkling brook.' We all had to pee, constantly, all day long. And no, it was not soothing. "Ocean waves" was just as bad. Run, run, run, all day long.

But I digress.

I'm sick, and I want orange juice, which we have. I want grape juice, which we have. I want a Hostess cupcake, which we have. What I don't have, is a butler to bring them to me. I want a butler who will wait on me and then go away and mind his own business. I want a butler, to wait on me and never hover and annoy me. I want a butler, who won't come into the room until he's summoned by way of a bell or buzzer. He will scratch my back and give me orange juice and scratch my back some more. And then he will get the hell out. And he will never ask me to scratch HIS back, because he's a butler, and they just don't ask. They serve.

The only difference between my dream butler and my husband, when I'm sick, is that back scratching thing. He's the best back scratcher in the world, but he thinks he's entitled to a back scratch in return. Can you imagine? What nerve.

So, I want a butler. A butler who will be just like my husband, but who will never expect a reciprocal back scratch. A hit and run butler, that's what I want.

I do have standards, though.

Sebastian Cabot can bring me orange juice but I don't want him touching my back. Alfred can bring me cupcakes and grape juice, but I don't want him touching my back, either. Batman might, but I don't. I don't want Jeeves touching me, either.

Colin Firth, though. . . .

Heck, Colin doesn't even have to bring me juice and cupcakes. Unless those are euphemisms, in which case, come on in, Colin; let's see the cupcakes and juice. . . . .