Day five: You have now moved into the second stage of the grieving process: anger. As your boyfriend tries to feed you a sandwich while you lie supine in bed, you snap at him. “Do not look at me.” “What???” he replies, incredulously. “Do not look at me with your eyes.” “You shouldn’t have gone to that party.” You know you should not have gone to the party. You look at him and imagine hobbling his ankles, Kathy Bates-style. You do not know where this ire is coming from. All you know is that you feel very clammy. You fall back asleep and have strange fever dreams about starring in a strangely erotic 1970s cream of wheat commercial.
Day six: You now have only five days left before you must catch a plane to Vienna. You imagine getting on the plane for your thirteen-hour flight still sick with the flu and triggering the end of human society as we know it, like Gwyneth Paltrow in that one movie where she is sick and also on a plane. You will do anything to avoid being like Gwyneth Paltrow. You must get well. We have entered phase three: bargaining. No more booze, no more erratic sleep. You recommit yourself to mindfulness and health and the pursuit of becoming a hydrated, glowing kale-infused mother goddess.
Day six, three hours later: You decide that a small glass of red wine will increase mindfulness. Only leads to desire for more wine.
Day seven: It is clear that you have entered into the second-to-last stage, depression. You begin sporadically crying. Your boyfriend hugs you and asks, “What’s wrong?” After coughing for approximately three minutes, you reply, through tears, “I am… so small. And so weak.”
You have reverted to an almost infantile state, unable to do anything but cry when you are hungry or need to sleep. You imagine Jung or Freud or one of those other perverts would probably have a lot to say about this current state. You get a letter in the mail from the IRS telling you someone has stolen your identity. You call the recommended hotline and speak to a very monotonous man named Roger who clearly lacks a passion for both revenue (internal or otherwise) and perhaps also services. You begin crying part way through the call and Roger is caught off guard. “Oh…ma’am, it will probably be fine. Just keep monitoring your credit reports.” “No, no,” you say. “I’m not upset about this. I’m just very sick.” “I’m so sorry to hear that.” You realize Roger believes you have some type of terminal illness. “No—not like cancer or anything.” Roger hangs up the phone.
Day eight: You have reached the final stage of grieving: acceptance. You try to log in to Netflix and find that the day you’ve been dreading has finally come—your ex-roomate’s ex-friend’s ex-girlfriend whom you’ve never met has grown tired of your repeated viewings of Last Holiday starring Queen Latifah messing up her “suggested movies” algorithm and has cut you off from the sweet teat of her Netflix subscription. You wonder what you have done in your life to deserve this. You lie on the couch with your eyes closed and sing famous spirituals until your boyfriend tells you that if he has to listen to you sing Amazing Grace one more time, he’s going to gouge out his own eardrums with the tines of a fork. Since you are loving and dedicated partner, you agree to accept death in silence.
(Heading into day nine now, so pray for me. Will report back with findings.)