A look at the world through my eyes. Well, just part of the world.
Though I’m sure I’ve fooled everyone with my calm and collected demeanor, the events of the past week have left me in a tizzy. Yes, I just used the word “tizzy.”
My world was flipped upside down by a nine-letter word I finally learned how to spell, thanks to GW Public Health Service updates – norovirus.
This fun-loving gastrointestinal illness invited itself onto campus and has really made itself feel at home. But the norovirus’ ability to find its way into every conversation leads me to believe this bitch is a bit of an attention whore.
I have a number of other things I should be focusing on, being the self-righteous college student that I am, but now I’m forced to spend my days worrying about how recently I washed my hands.
Speaking of which, the backs of my hands look like I have a skin condition. I’ve dried them out to the point where my knuckles spontaneously start bleeding, and it’s taken every masculine bone in my body to resist the urge to buy hand lotion.
Excuse me for the unoriginal comparison, but my life has turned into one of those epidemic movies like “Contagion.” Except, my version doesn’t get the benefit of a dramatic tagline: “Nothing spreads like fear.” I can only hope I’ll turn out to be the immune Matt Damon of this story and not the seizing Gwyneth Paltrow.
Nothing personal. She’s a beautiful woman.
And pardon my graphic language, but all this talk about vomit and diarrhea has me feeling very uneasy about leaving my room.
Door handles have quickly transformed into one of my greatest fears, and don’t even get me started on elevator buttons.
I considered quarantining my roommate and myself, but I can’t see him being a very obliging hostage. Plus, he’s started going to the gym three times a day for some reason, so I probably wouldn’t win in a fight.
My only other option has been to remain as antisocial as possible. Considering how many times a day I use the phrase, “I hate people,” this hasn’t been much of a challenge.
Unfortunately, my family is only feeding the fire that is my hypochondria. After hearing my frantic reports to my mom about encasing myself in a plastic bubble, my sister sent me an email listing helpful hints to avoid contracting a virus. Among this laundry list of inconveniences was, “Avoid touching your eyes and mouth at all costs.”
Does this mean I can’t lick my hands after I eat a bag of Cheetos?
With my friends dropping like flies, I figure it’s only a matter of time before I meet the same, bathroom-imprisoned fate. I routinely flip through my day planner to figure out which days would be most convenient for me to start puking.
Regardless, the fact that I’m still safe is slightly empowering.
