Poison

My buddy Russ's birthday was last week. Not only did we have cake at the office, but we also celebrated by going out for a hamburger. The cake was good. The burger nearly killed me.

(I almost wrote "kilt" me. Funny how the mind does that to you. I must've been thinking about the fact that Tanner and I saw a dude wearing a kilt last night, which started us on a discussion of our Scottish ancestry. Interesting stuff, that...but it'll have to wait for a future installment. Right now we're talking about attempted murder at Red Robin.)

I had the "Blackened Bayou Burger". The menu photo looked delicious, and I assumed that the name meant that it was a spicy cajun assemblage, and would delight my mouth with wonderful flavors from the deep south. But apparently, the name means that it contained a dark curse from a bitter voodoo swamp conjurer, and would haunt me with nightmares of hissing reptiles, polluted waters, and bubbling cauldrons of fetid potions. Plus, it didn't look at all like the picture.

It was edible, I suppose, but it wasn't long after returning to the office that I noticed that digestion was not progressing normally. Being a moderately civilized man, I generally try to suppress workplace eructation and flatulence, but it was beginning to become a struggle the afternoon ticked away. My original plan for the day had included a run up the canyon after work, but with each passing minute, my gut was making a persuasive case against it.

And to make matters worse, I was assigned a task that needed to be completed before I left for the day. I did my part quickly enough, but I had to wait for the customer to approve it, and ended up not leaving the office until an hour after my usual quitting time. By then, the swamp gases from the bayou were attacking in full force.

I usually eat dinner pretty much as soon as I get home, but that night I wasn't at all interested. I pretty much walked in the door and went straight to bed. I didn't eat anything, turn on the TV, or pick up a book. I just got myself into bed and hoped that sleep would ease the rumblings within.

It did. But my dreams were not restful. Tiny Tim, the Captain & Tennille, Sylvester Stallone, and other vile denizens of the swamp came to visit my slumber. I woke up a few times bathed in sweat but freezing cold, and there were the expected unpleasant visits to the bathroom (complete with sound effects unsuited for a family publication such as this) -- but I could tell that my system had not been purged of its demons yet.

My alarm clock roused me for swim practice. It was "Fun Friday", which meant that my swim team was expecting me to come up with a workout that amused and delighted them, bringing a moment's joy into their otherwise drab and humdrum lives. And usually, I fulfill this expecation with style -- creating practices that sprinkle whimsy and humor onto a foundation of butterfly drills and no-breathers. But since I could barely haul myself out of bed at all, much less tap into my inner Robin Williams, it did not seem likely that I was going to be much "fun" at the pool.

In fact, I was as weak as a politician's punchline. I could barely move, and each motion was accompanied by Vesuvian rumbling from within. I couldn't focus my eyes, couldn't stand the thought of food, and realized that no matter how many times I brushed my teeth, I may still smell like week-old jambalaya. I could not subject the swimmers to that, even if I could manage to drive myself to the pool, which was not likely anyway. I called in sick.

I hate doing that. Not that I think the team suffers too badly when I'm not there -- I'm sure they don't. They probably had a celebration in my absence, and I'm sure I'll hear that it was the "best Fun Friday ever". But I hate missing my own workouts, and I hate missing the energy I get from being around my friends and the athletes who inspire me. But it was the right choice to make. I slept for an additional 6 hours.

I had one cup of yogurt between Thursday's lunch and the time late Friday evening when I realized that the worst of the plague had passed. I knew that I'd be OK on Saturday...it was just an evil hamburger after all, not like a virus or anything...but I had intended to use my "off" Friday to catch up on housework, exercise, writing, and banking. But spending the entire day in bed, hallucinating about Al Gore in a radiation suit threaten to Van Halenize my brain if I didn't reduce carbon emissions by swearing to never again eat anything with "blackened" in its title -- well, it wasn't exactly my definition of a productive day.

The good news is that all those hours of rest seemed to turn the tide, and by Saturday morning, I was feeling fine. I'll tell you about the rest of the weekend in my next posting. Until then, have a great day!