It's Not Easy Being Green

Two nights ago, while I was in the midst of writing -- I'm sure it was a terribly witty and engaging piece -- an alien space ship hovered over my apartment and zapped my brain, simple as that.

In a flash I could feel all thought draining from my head, all energy sapped from my body. I crawled across the floor and slithered onto my bed.

Delirious Drama Queen lay on top of the covers, limply moaning for hours, realizing that it's August in Paris. Not only are my neighbors and the gardienne gone, but also any good Samaritan pals who could normally help revive me were, in fact, sunning on some distant shore. Anyway, I couldn't have reached the phone if I tried.

And by the time the cleaning guy would arrive next week, he would stumble upon my unrecognizable, dessicated corpse and sweep it into la poubelle.

Shivering, feverish, I spent the night planning my wretched funeral. Should the notices be posted on the blog? Who would inform my kids? Pine or fancy box?

Miraculously, I awoke in the morning. Several times. I was going to survive. But the aliens did run over me with a steam roller while I slept, just for good measure. My toes don't ache, though.

So maybe it wasn't aliens, but that other sinister invader, the summer stomach bug. Or "something I ate." Both Americanisms that aren't bandied about much in France when discussing digestion ailments.

On a need-to-know basis, not much you need to know. Suffice it to say that my grocery bill has plummeted, and my friends who have just paid to trot off for a week at a fancy "fasting spa" should have just stopped by chez moi and let me breathe on them instead. Not highly recommended, but a cheaper way to lose a dress size.

I'm delaying the decision to hobble over to the pharmacie at the corner, where I know they'll try to convince me oh-so-kindly that it's a crise de foie. But I know of other people who have this thing, and last I heard, a crise de foie wasn't contagious, nor does it last for three days.

Besides, I'm not venturing too far from home. I'm just glad I wasn't supposed to be flying to some glamorous vacation spot. Like Wolfeboro.