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Let me just say, I’m not in the habit of lying on the bathroom floor.
This is certainly a first for me.
But, oh, it feels good.
“I’M LYING ON A BATHROOM FLOOR AND IT FEELS GOOD!”
Never thought I’d say that.
Look at this milestone in my life.
Somewhere in the back of my brain tiny neurons are urging my muscles to get up—something about germs, urine, bacteria—I’m hearing the word “gross” an awful lot.
The idea churns my roiling stomach, but the rest of my body tells those neurons to shut up.
And my body is louder. I can actually HEAR my intestines. Gurgle, gurgle, gloop.
Okaaaaay, I need to end THAT thought process before I lose my dinner. Again.
Ohhh.
Darkness surrounds me.
I would cry, but it would probably hurt too much.
Beads of sweat soak my body, chilled by the coolness of the tiles on the floor. It’s very soothing. I could die here. That would be okay. Sweet Jesus, take me home.
Except my husband might miss me. That could be a downside. Maybe. I suppose being violently ill hasn’t made me ENTIRELY mercenary. I can spare a thought for his emotional state, can’t I?
Alright, should the Big Guy decide to put me out of my misery—merciful, gracious, abundant Father, hear my broken plea—I can pray for Him to offer my poor mourning husband that whole ‘peace that passes understanding’ thing, right? That’s Christian. I’m almost proud of my consideratio—ohhhhhhhhh.
Oh, no. Oh, no. Breathe. Just breathe. There you go. In. Out. In. Out. In. Ohhh!
I’m gonna die. I’m gonna die on dirty bathroom tiles and that’s how everyone is going to remember me.
“Isn’t she the one who died clinging to the toilet a few years ago?”
“Yes. Tragic isn’t it? All those germs, can you imagine?”
Oh, dear God in Heaven, don’t let me die like this. I have so much to live for—so much, I tell You! DON’T LET ME DIE LIKE THIS!
Spinning, spinning, spinning. Just keeps spinning, spinning, spinning.
Maybe if I close my eyes….
I had so much to do today, too. Stupid flu. I feel like banging my head against the tile floor, but that would require entirely too much energy. I’m feeling a shortage—a kinetic energy drought.
But what on earth am I going to do? ‘A reporter’s work is never finished’ and all that.
Clark Kent made it look so glamorous.
What a crock.
I never saw Lois Lane stumble into an auxiliary gym at 7 in the morning for an all-conference wrestling meet. THAT wasn’t in the trilogy. Or sit for hours on end outside of a burning sawdust fire, watching soot-layered men and women doing the EXACT same thing they’d been doing for the last FIVE HOURS—oh, look, they’re spraying more water.
But heaven forbid you go to your best friend’s baby shower instead of covering the pork dinner at the Chamber of Commer—oh, oh bright light. I see a bright li—wait that’s just a car passing.
The brief glare shines through the small window in the shower wall, and I wince. Coulda fooled anybody. No need to obsess about embarrassing—WAIT a minute. Just WAIT a minute here. WAIT.
Mental hands push at the air in a ‘stop’ motion because, seriously, the real ones are too zapped to do it.
Stop. Rewind. Think. (Insert tape deck noises as the film backtracks.) Blah, blah, blah—so tired—blah, blah, blah—something about a reporter and her work—blah, blah—hold it—pause—rewind. There it is.
Work.
Wasn’t I just complaining about work. To God. A LOT? No rest for the weary.
Oh, sweet Jesus. Oh, sweet, merciful Jesus. You’re giving me time off aren’t You?
Okay, yeah, I may have to hug a few toilets as payment, but an excuse to take time off work? To recoup? Sleep? REST? Oh, sweet Jesus.
Cold sweat pimples my forehead as another car turns down our lane and it hits me.
A voice—not the car.
“Slow down.”
Huh?
“Slow. Down.”
Come again?
“Slow down, or I will force you to slow down.”
Ah. Got it.
So dense.
But wait. What You’re saying is, maybe this ‘lying on the bathroom floor’ stuff isn’t so bad after all??
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