Out Come the Santa Claws

“Are you okay?” the station agent asked me with a very concerned look in his eyes. “Do you need help?”

I smiled, laughed a bit. “I swear. I think I'll be okay.” I managed, as I wiped a bead of sweat from my chin.

I must have looked like I was battling the black plague. I was lugging two huge bags, my hair was stuck to my forehead, and drips of sweat poured down my cheeks falling onto my loosened scarf. I felt the flush of fever on my face in harsh contrast to the cold chill of NY on my neck. People were staring.

I was miserable. The morning rush hour foot traffic streamed about around me like ants; I was the disruptive foot in the middle of the hill.

I got my ticket and settled onto the Metro North train. Peeled off layers of clothing and sat in my undershirt, soaked and panting, as my body worked to break the 103 degree fever. The past few days had already been a comedy of errors consisting of my receiving the wrong date for a job, waking up at 6 and schlepping to Grand Central, only to find out I ACTUALLY needed to do the same thing again TOMORROW.

I was supposed to arrive up north “camera ready.” I had visions of them horrified at the sweaty-mess imposter that showed up in place of the girl whose headshot they saw a few days earlier. I imagined them holding up the picture, glancing at me looking like a drowned refugee, back at the smiling picture, to me with the plague, to the picture...

Luckily my body pulled itself together by the time I got there, and with a lot of hand sanitizer and Advil I made it through the day filming a local commercial for a car dealership. “Tell me about financing...”

I've now been battling this flu-situation for over 5 days. I've canceled plans and auditions, been unable to attend parties, essentially slept my way through the last full week/weekend in the city before home-for-the-holidays. Oh, but not before slopping together a Christmas party that I had planned for weeks and was unable to cancel after I misjudged how long this illness would linger.

I have tried to remain positive. I've smiled, and joked, and mustered energy for most of this bullshit sickness. I've been witty and upbeat as I laid in bed experiencing some odd mix of shivering and sweating, with my body aching and a thermometer perpetually protruding from my lips. But, it's official! I am OVER it.

F*ck the Flu! Just f*ck f*ck f*ck it.

I LOVE CHRISTMAS and, I have to tell you, the white lights and angels I had in mind for this time of year are a little different from the kinds one sees from her death bed. I have yet to decorate a tree. I have yet to sip tea at a holiday market. I have yet to wander the city taking in the freakin' holiday spirit with a goddamn hot beverage in my hand and the smell of warm f*cking nuts in my nostrils!!!

...so...

I'm kinda in a mood...

BUT, I have glimmers of hope that I will pull myself out of it. I've read articles about good people doing good deeds, I've found some great gifts online, I've painted my nails in true Holiday fashion... This week, I will make an effort to douse myself in some f*cking Christmas cheer if it's the last thing I do. ...which it may be since this fever may ruin me like Beth in Little Women. (spoiler alert: the bitch dies.)

So...

Happy Holiday season! Seriously. I mean, Christmas dinner this year may consist of scrambled eggs with a side of Tamiflu, but dammit it will be served on a freakin' snowman plate.

Ho. Ho. H-bleh.