Just An

The flu reared its head into my life for the second time this season.

When it invades my world, beyond all its other highly publicized symptoms, it also brings an immediate descent into the notorious black Irish mood. Something not to be welcomed, as any Irishman or woman well knows

Everything takes on the tinge of darkness. Sad memories emerge. I am not fun to be around.

And so it was, until a surprising email arrived late last night.

Prior to the onset of aches, coughs and depression, I had sent a manuscript to a friendly editor who on occasion has a kind view of my work.

Immediately after sending my submission, I forgot about it and returned to concentrating on feeling sorry for myself.

This morning when I emerged from my cocoon of self pity long enough to check my email, I was astounded.,

Anyone who knows anything about me, must realize to put it quite kindly, I am mature, a senior citizen, over 50,. To be brutally honest, and it does hurt, I am old. Not a pleasant word admittedly, but utterly accurate.

The response to my ms was not only supportive but also gave me a tentative promise of publication if I agreed to the provision of working on it as a Christmas story.

It is now January, and his optimism reflected in the response was akin to my drinking a flask of youth serum.

Then I remembered a friend I had spoken to the other afternoon. She is a dozen years older than I, and devastated at the necessity of relinquishing her driver’s license. She now must arrange for daily transportation to the local Y for her morning swim.

It didn’t take very long, for the restorative abilities of optimism to wash away any lingering taints of my black mood.

While the coughing hasn’t disappeared, nor the muscle aches subsided totally, the buoyant viewpoint of others was an elixir far better than tamiflu.

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