Playing Hurt

Getting dressed when you’re not feeling yourself.

Pants with a button may be the most offensive thing when you’re playing with an injury.

This was the weekend. Probably our last before the baby. My wife and I were supposed to be letting our hair down, just two crazy kids in love. I could not be sick for this.

The signs were there all week: my aversion to hair product, my preference for elastane. I blamed Roscoe, the roommate I’m allergic to, and the season change. By Friday, pulling on my Uniqlo wide-leg sweats, I’d convinced myself I wasn’t giving my all because it had been a long week.

When you toss on a sweat, you know the waist will bend to every whim and meal. What you might not realize is that years of wear have turned it into a pizza-grease-stained X-ray machine. Nobody wants to see all that while waiting for a bagel.

I like to think they could pass for trousers to the untrained eye. With a vintage tee and some cropped outerwear, they felt like a strong prescription for the Friday sniffles.

Next, I grabbed a beer and ate a French dip. I still needed a fit pic for the day anyway.

I went home, put on some garbage TV, and let myself melt into the couch.

Saturday morning, I knew what I needed: breakfast. Real breakfast, not some brunched-up nonsense. An omelet, pancakes, and black coffee.

I was back in the same black sweats with my trusty Aaron Levine quarter-zip. Nips to fleece. I could not stomach a T-shirt collar.

We went to Danny’s Place. Cash only, old school. It hit the spot, but even after two cups of mud, I still didn’t feel like myself. Now I was fighting the urge to sneeze. I had also calculated my comfort wrong. I didn’t need a sweater and sweats.

By the time we left breakfast, I had to admit I was officially sick. We headed to Target for supplies. And to walk off the carbs. Pancakes, toast, breakfast potatoes… you know.

When that gross vitamin C honey thing, three Ricola drops, and a shot of extra-strength Mucinex didn’t immediately have me ready to swim the English Channel, I had to face the possibility that I might still be sick when my kid was born.

Yes, the mask would fuck up the fit. That’s a given. But I was terrified of getting my newborn child sick.

At home, I unloaded my bounty and changed into shorts. You get a day as nice as that Saturday maybe once or twice a year. I still wanted to be out in it.

Though hesitant to get my feet in the sand, I was persuaded to try the sailor’s widow’s cure: salty air. I got two scoops of ice cream in the system and was starting to feel like myself.

After splurging on an Apple TV rental of Tony, we realized we hadn’t had a proper meal since breakfast. I had one last Saturday cure in me: dinner on the patio at Catbird. We’d been meaning to try it for eighteen months. It got last licks.

The hostess greeted my wife with adoration and smiles, and me with what I’ve come to recognize as the “How could you do that to her?” glance.

If true love isn’t listening to the insufferable people around you talk about how bad dating is, then the ride-home debrief about why they can’t find love is.

It’s Sunday now. I feel more human, though I’m not convinced I’ve cleared mask territory. My belly is full of pastina. Breaking out the big guns over here.

Between the anticipation and the anxiety, I looked at my wife and said, “I should write.” Who knows what the coming week will bring? And what would the Filoneheads do without me?

I walked to pick up food in the rain wearing my yellow raincoat. With yellow shorts underneath, I looked like a high-visibility Sasquatch.

But hey, rain jackets should be yellow, even if mine no longer fits in the friendly fashion it once did. We’ll call it sympathy weight.

Here’s hoping I have a few more days to get better. I’d like to make a good first impression.

-SP