Well, come to find out that thrill of rolling the bones and not knowing exactly if my number's going to come up apparently extends well beyond Vegas.
In fact, all the way to my doctor's office.
Every flu season, my doctor offers me a flu shot. It's an offer usually met with cynicism and a polite refusal. I rarely get the flu, and the ones I have gotten haven't been that bad.
Until now.
I remember the great flu panics of years past: Swine flu. Avian flu. Hong Kong flu. I also remember everyone in the media getting the message out, telling people to get their flu shots.
This time, I wish I'd listened.
I've just spent ten days down - way down - with the flu. This was no lightweight virus. This was a wicked, ass-kicking, anti-Semetic, vindictive, petty, vengeful flu that was relentless in making me feel as bad as it possibly could for no reason at all.
I'm not sure what its official name is. I call it the Creative Director flu.
Fortunately it didn't come with some of the messier symptoms that can sometimes accompany the flu. It was mostly fever after fever, 24/7 aching from head to toe, and a fatigue that would necessitate three hour naps after a walk from the bedroom to the bathroom.
The good news is I lost my appetite as well as a little weight, and now have a newfound appreciation for mango juice from Trader Joe's.
As a result of this latest bout, I'm now even more of a hand-washing fanatic than before. On the hand-washing scale, I'm way north of my kids and just slightly south of Howard Hughes.
I've learned my lesson. Next year, I'm rolling the dice on the flu shot.
Even if it only lessens the misery, I'll consider that a win.
