I totally drank sour milk today. My first spoonful of the cereal seemed to taste all weird, but I said, "awww, it's probably just the honey flavor from the Honey Bunches of Oats coming through." I ate the rest of the bowl, dutifully ignoring the peculiar taste. Later that day, I went for a quick bite or two of cereal, and this time I could not help but notice the sour-milk smell as I uncapped the container. I read the plastic bottle, and it had expired May 4th. So, close save that time. I poured the rest of the stinky milk down the drain. I would be worried about the first bowl of cereal, but the alien space monkeys who have been following me around all day assure me that I am fine.

Today I am merely ill. Yesterday I was dramatically sick. Probably a parting gift from the kids at camp, it came on strong on Sunday, just as I was getting my voice back. I woke up yesterday feeling just terrible. The snotty nose intensified to the point where my immediate environs represented a sort of particularly disgusting Slip-n-Slide. I had, and have, a hacking cough so nasty that bookies are running boards on how far away my lung will land. Sinus pressure, or something, makes me feel like my eyeballs are going to pop out. And I am almost deaf – everything I hear seems muffled through a thick layer of cotton.

Normally on such a day, all reasonable people stay home from work. I, however, drug myself out of bed and into work, partially because that is the kind of trooper I am, partially because what could look more suspicious than taking a sick day after taking three days of vacation?, but mostly because I had an interview that lunchtime.

So I pressed up a dress shirt all nice and pretty, pulled on a suit over my sick and disgusting body, and drug myself over to the bus stop. I sat there for a long time in a stupor, trying not to get post-nasal drip all over myself, before I finally questioned whether there was really a bus coming. Sure enough, I had missed the bus. So then I drove into work, re-using yesterday’s snotty napkins for Kleenex. You might think that would be the most disgusting and humiliating thing that would happen to me that day, but I haven’t told you yet about when the napkins failed me and a couple huge globs of snot ended up right in my crotch, looking exactly like an entirely other kind of bodily fluid.

Yessir, I sure do cut a dapper figure for interviewing. No mistake.

Somehow I stagger through my morning, catching up on emails, admiring the work that got done in my absence last week, and popping decongestants like they were going out of fashion (which they were, having expired in 4/03). But no decongestants were going to stand a chance against the twin faucets of my snot. And the included cold medicines didn’t do a thing to lessen the haze I was viewing the world through or relieve any of the pressure that was going to pop the eyeballs out of my skull, leaving them dangling from cords like a comic-book character.

Noon rolls around and I pop four more decongestants in hope of some succor during the interviews. The only advantage I notice is that I feel like I am floating as I walk out of the building. The tiny decongestant high lasts almost four blocks. Four blocks in which I am feeling very smooth and attractive to the ladies, despite my raw, red nose.

I show up at , and hop upstairs to present myself for interviewing with my satchel full of copies of my resume and Kleenex.

Everything is chaos. The person who was going to interview me has to bail. The HR person who was coordinating my day is out of office for some reason (probably had the sense to stay home sick when she was sick), and I, of course, am feeling miserable. How can this not be the setup for the best interview ever? After they left me waiting for ten minutes in the lobby, I had started watching my watch.

“Okay,” I said to myself. “If they leave me sitting for fifteen minutes past our start time, then I’ll just walk out. That’s more than fair, right? Yeah. It’s just a question of basic respect and stuff...”

Unfortunately, at 11 minutes, they came over and got me, so I had to muddle through.

It was okay, I suppose. I was far from owning the room. My interview was about 10% questions, 70% me talking nonsense, and 20% me blowing my nose and apologizing over and over. “I’m mortified!” I actually said, rather pleased with myself for finding a way to work the word mortified into an interview.

Had I been able to think, the Kleenex could have been a perfect distraction maneuver to give me an extra few seconds to compose my answer and not sound like a complete fool. ‘Course, had I been able to think, I might have been able to offer a semi-coherent interview.

It was finally over about three weeks of misery later. By now, no doubt half of the bank has my SARS. I got back to the office and managed to stagger around for almost exactly one more hour before I gave up and went home. Then I slept 15 of the next 18 hours.

Today I am feeling much better in the sense of “not the center of my own water feature”. I still feel like crap and can’t think to save my life, but at least I am only rarely blowing my nose and despite a day of efforts every few seconds, the threatened lung has thus far refused to leave my body.

Tomorrow, I hope for almost normal bodily functions and perhaps some of my brain back.

Fingers crossed.