Monday afternoon I got in line to receive the second dose of the Moderna vaccine. The first one left me somewhat sore and headachey; big fat deal. This one has left me with a headache that gallops like a stampede of buffalo and body aches that make me wonder if I woke up in the middle of the night and sleep-crunched my way through the 7 Minute Workout.
It's nothing I can't handle -- hello, Tylenol! -- and well worth enduring knowing what the alternatives are. I've also been impressed with how efficient the drive-up process was. The Department of Health in our county is a few minutes' drive from my house, and they had us through the whole thing in about half an hour. Most of that was just making sure neither of us had allergic reactions to our dose.
On the other hand, this was the first time in [counts on fingers] something like three years I'd been really, really sick with anything. One tiny boon of the pandemic and everyone masking up is that conventional germ-borne illnesses like the Plain Old Flu dropped to nothing. But when I finally did get sick, it was a jarring reminder of how wretched it felt. (And how bothersome it was to lose whole days to lying in bed and sweating like a snowman on a griddle.)
One tiny boon of being ill is how some of the weirder things from your dreams during that time can be scraped up and saved for later. As off-model for me as this sounds, I have astonishingly boring and predictable dreams -- the same old neurotic "late for school, can't find my way home" crap. So much so that when something truly interesting boils up out of the dream cauldron, it stands out twice as much because everything else that comes out of there is such dross. I scraped something out of it that I'm not quite ready to talk about, but which may be of great importance for a future project.
I also ended up watching, more out of sheer boredom than anything else, Wonder Woman 1984, and my god is it a terrible movie. Bad enough that it's not even worth a full discussion: drearily paced, composed of one dumb story decision after another. They were evidently trying for the lightheartedness of the original Superman, but they ended up with the leadfootedness and lunkheadedness of Superman III. I don't think I'm exaggerating if I say anyone reading this could have written a better story than the one they came up with. You'd want to if you saw it. Or, better yet, come up with something altogether else.
New York City
Other Lives Of The Mind