Wherein the Tic Talks, or We Have Your Body on Line One

I’ve had a small tic under my right eye for almost 72 hours now. I look in the mirror and assure myself that it is not noticeable, that I am presentable.

I hate to think that it is because of losing my blog-idea book (see Thursday’s “Wherein Pearl Misses an Inanimate Object” and no, you may not refer to it as my “diary”), but who knows? I’ve had stranger physical reactions.

See, I don’t get normal stuff. Sure, my foray into the Swine Flu was fairly normal, aside from the feverish squealing, but I tend to get the stuff no one’s heard of.

Fleas, for instance.

That’s right. I had fleas.

What? You think I’d make that up?

“You live on a farm?” the doctor asked.

“No.”

“You have animals,” he said.

“Cats.”

“Why are some of them circled with an ink pen?”

“The bites?” I said. “Because I’d go to bed with three and wake up with 30 and I was just trying to keep track of them.”

“Well,” he said, trying to hide his delight. “You’ve got fleas. Now, normally, fleas don’t like humans, but you –“ and he blushed – he blushed! – “must be, uh, tasty.”

Why yes. Of course I’m tasty!

Even the fleas think so.

I also once had costochondritis.

You may persist in your belief that a friend of yours once vacationed there – just south of Puerto Vallarta, wasn’t it? – but believe me when I tell you that it is no where you want to go. Costochondritis is most definitely north of South America, right in the center of the chest, actually, and causes you to breathe shallowly and with fear in your eyes.

If someone offers you the costochondritis, tell them “no, thank you”.

And then send me your $30 co-pay because that, my friend, was sound medical advice.

So why the tic?, you say.

Good question.

I support, at work, one man – in an administrative capacity only, of course. We have a good relationship. We are both hard workers, both direct in our affect, both analytical in nature.

I was informed by him earlier this week that after 25 years, he is leaving.

That’s my third boss in six years.

And the tic in my eye?

I wonder.

Perhaps, like him, I just can’t see going to work anymore.