Hard as it may be to believe, cold and flu season is already upon us. I know, it seems like just yesterday we were crowning last season’s cold and flu champion, but that’s time for you.
As is tradition in our family, my wife rang in the season in the usual way — by badgering me about getting a flu shot. And, true to form, I explained my argument against doing so.
“Why get a flu shot?” I asked, incredulous. “Isn’t the point to keep from getting the flu? So why would it make any sense to go out and inject yourself with the very thing you’re trying to avoid?”
As it turns out, the shot is supposed to inoculate you from getting the flu which, I pointed out, makes it the most misleadingly-named product since Milwaukee’s Best beer. Not distracted into discussing this perfectly valid point, my wife added that flu shots are often in short supply, so I needed to get one soon.
In that case, I said, isn’t it my duty as a moral person to step aside so that others in greater need might enjoy the benefits of this potentially lifesaving injection that I don’t want to get anyway?
In the past, these and other ploys — such as faking my death and assuming a new identity — have been sufficient to help me delay getting the dreaded shot until the season has passed. Not this year. That’s because last week my wife informed me that my father-in-law, a practicing physician, would be stopping by to deliver my flu shot personally. I called him immediately.
“Dad, thanks so much, but you really don’t have to bother,” I said.
“Oh, it’s no bother,” he replied. “This is an important preventative health measure that will help you keep looking for that real job you’ve been talking about getting for so long. Plus I’ve been eager to jab you with a sharp object for some time, and this is my chance. It’s a real win-win. And don’t call me ‘Dad.’ ”
So I got the flu shot last week and now, predictably enough, I’m sick. Which I wouldn’t mind so much, except that with all the coughing and sneezing, it’s difficult to get through an entire, “I hope you’re happy now” each time my wife enters the room.
The other problem is that since I don’t have a job, I can’t take a sick day. Not that anyone actually skips work when they’re sick any more. “As long as I’m going to be miserable, I might as well be at work,” is the typical employee’s attitude. So-called “sick days” are reserved for extraordinary circumstances, like half-price banana slammers day at the local tiki bar, or that occasional morning when you’re feeling so frustrated with your coworkers that the only way you’re going into the office is with a dozen sticks of dynamite strapped to your chest.
But just because I don’t have a “real” job right now doesn’t mean I never will (despite what my father-in-law says). And in case I ever do land gainful employment, I’ll need to be ready. Ready to call in sick, that is. Which is why I’m taking advantage of the fact that I currently have the throaty, tubercular cough of a dying chimney sweep in a Dickens novel to record my “calling in sick” message.
This message is so authentic-sounding, I’ve decided to prerecord others to get me out of a whole range of social obligations — weddings, bar mitzvahs, funerals, interventions, etc. In fact, I plan to use the latest message I’ve recorded when I call my father-in-law to get out of next year’s flu shot.
Examiner columnist Malcolm Fleschner doesn’t wish to offend any fans of Milwaukee’s Best beer. But really, come on.
