Nothing makes me feel more like a nondescript lab rat than working during flu season. Within our cage, it begins with a solitary sneezer and then there are two. Like playing Ten Little Indians, one by one the sickness spreads until no healthy remain. Coughs echo within cavernous cubicles and the weary and beleaguered stalk the hallways with red noses and watering eyes. It's only a matter of time before I join the herd of the afflicted. Unfortunately, unlike with hoof-and-mouth disease where one simply slaughters the sick, in the case of feet not hooves, slaughter is not an option. And when those feet are dressed in expensive Ferragamos, taking sick days is not an option, either. Here's my plan:
After spending the fourth quarter of 2009 unable to speak due to my bout with the bird/swine/cat/dog/fish flu, I am determined to avoid this round, even if I have to eat an entire organic grove of oranges. Fingers crossed.
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