Unchained Malady

Just about the time you read this, I’ll be undergoing surgery for a horrid disease that, lucky for us, is rare in our neck of the woods—that disease is leprosy. Supposedly, leprosy is transmitted by a virus. And I’m pretty dang sure I caught it on St. Patrick’s Day, the one day each year when Irish leperchauns slink around behind the scenes in ugly clothes. I’m glad the little fellas ditched the traditional leprous rags in favor of pointy shoes and shamrocks, but who the hell needs belts with oversized buckles just to hold up tiny leggings?

Thank goodness, leprosy can be treated. I’ll be having just a couple of minor amputations―left thumb, right ring finger. Oh, and my nose and both legs. Supposedly, leprosy isn’t as contagious as y’all might think. Still…if I were you, Suziecakes, I’d grab the Lysol and do-si-do with the keyboard.

Okay, I’m kidding. Your keyboard is fine. Except for that disgusting accumulation of crumbs and crud embedded between QWERTYUIOP and ASDFGHJKL. Go grab a toothpick and some Q-tips to clean it while I embellish the leprosy theme. On one hand, suffering leprosy’s horrible disfigurement and inevitable social ostracism can put a kink in one’s social life. But on the other hand, there’s no need for a glum face—assuming (heh heh) that one still has a face and hands. Historically, lepers are the only sick people who ring a bell when approaching healthy people. Now that’s what I call considerate! How awful if they insisted on butchering songs with an accordion. As it turns out, a lifetime of ringing bells is the reason why so many lepers become concert musicians.

Musicians?? Nope, still kidding. Statistically, lepers are 83.4 percent more likely than plague victims to join a circus. Considering how easily their body parts can disassemble, however, the success rate of leprous trapeze artists remains unverified.

April Fool! I don’t have leprosy, thank heavens, because the number of cases in Caledonia plummeted when the Clearasil market went belly up. Instead, I’m going in for a plain old hip replacement, my second one. And if I were to poke around in the closet of “stuff that scares me,” I’d rank joint replacement as no worse than getting wisdom teeth pulled. And it’s nowhere near my scariest real-life nightmare.  And what is the nightmare of which I speak? Cowering in the shadow of a bubbly 19-year-old rookie beautician clutching a pair of scissors in one fist and her third can of Monster in the other.