Last night I caved in and decided to go to Urgent Care. My raspy voice was no longer sexy. In fact, there was nothing sexy about the gallons of greenish snot traveling through my sinus passages, threatening to overtake my nose and cascade out like a waterfall. My cough was no longer a delicate little “ahem”—instead it sounded like a cacophony of strangled ducks, quacking and hacking while they struggle for air. I had started to flap my arms like a duck when I coughed too. My throat felt like it had been shredded with razor blades and my whole body ached from the effort to stay upright.

So I stopped in for a quick visit on my way home from work.

I walked in the doors and was stunned to see the place teeming with people—like a swarm of germs. The room was jam-packed. For a split second I thought about turning around and going home to the warmth and safety of my bed, but I knew if I didn’t go then, I wouldn’t go at all. So I went up to the desk, checked in, displayed all the appropriate insurance information, paid my co-pay and waited for my turn.

There was nowhere to sit. Every single chair was full of sprawling, slouching, coughing, sneezing, bleeding, wheezy, bleary-eyed people. So I found some empty wall space by the front door and sat down to enjoy the US Weekly I bought just for this occasion. Trashy gossip mags and emergency rooms go hand in hand. I didn’t have the attention span for my book, and the paragraph-sized articles with big pictures were perfect. Tabloids are picture books for adults. But the floor was cold and every few seconds the door would open and shut because people were either coming in and out or loitering with their cigarettes by the front door (FYI to the lady with bronchitis: you probably should cut back on that 3-pack-a-day habit). I finally got annoyed with the teenage girl who stood in the doorway, holding the door open because she didn’t want to go all the way outside, but didn’t want the whole Urgent Care population to hear her very important phone call with her OhmygodBFF! I asked her politely to commit to being either in or out, but she gave me a look and said into the phone, “I don’t know. Some cranky lady wants me to move or some shit. I know! Whatev, right?” Sigh.

I didn’t have the energy for that battle so I scooted down the wall a little bit, but I was right under the TV, which was blaring Jeopardy!, which just made my headache unbearable. They finally called someone and two chairs opened up, but before I could get up and move toward them, some dude who had been there all of 3 seconds skulked over to them and sat down, saving one with his jacket. By this time I had been here about 30 minutes. My ass was cold from the floor, I was shivering from the front door and I was turning into a cranky shrew.

Just a little sociology break here: There are two kinds of people who come into Urgent Care. 1. The people who come in, survey the scene and resign themselves to patiently waiting their turn, and 2. the people who come in, survey the room, assume we all have nothing else to do except sit there, pitch a fucking fit and yell about how they’re not going to wait in this mess, try to jump the line, but then sit there looking as stupid as they feel when they realize they need to sit down, shut the fuck up and wait their turn like the rest of us.

Break time must have been over because they suddenly started calling a bunch of people in. My name was called so the nurse could triage me. The dude never even looked at me once. Eyes on computer, asking my questions, typing in my answers. He took my temperature, my blood pressure and sent me back out into the petri dish. And my wall.

A few minutes after I returned to the waiting room, three seats opened up. This time I moved quickly. I grabbed one on the end so I didn’t have to sit between two sickly people, opened my US Weekly and settled in for the long haul. 20 minutes later, the people who previously occupied the row of chairs that I was now sitting in, came out and fumed loudly at the audacity of people stealing THEIR chair. (They didn’t really say audacity, but I can’t really duplicate the expletives they spewed). Who knew they were coming back? And after 20 minutes? Those fucking chairs are fair game suckers.

At about 8:00 p.m., I was one hour into this little adventure and entering the 9th circle of hell. The 2-hour Bachelor Season Finale came on the TV, and the room was rapidly filling with wheezy, vomiting kids who all but oozed snot. Most of them were never told to cover their mouths when they coughed, so they hacked all over everyone, wiping their nasty noses with their fists and then touching every single piece of furniture in the place.

Meanwhile, this older couple sat across from me, and the woman stared at me the entire time they sat there. Not sly little glances, but openly staring. Her eyes bored into me. And god forbid I should cough (while covering my mouth, thankyouverymuch). The woman gaped at me with open hostility, like I was soley responsible for all the sickness in the world. Um, it IS Urgent Care, bitch. Fuck off. Believe me, I didn’t want to be there any more than she did.

I tried to tune her out and read, but I couldn’t concentrate. So I closed my US Weekly and put it back in my purse. At this point, The Staring Woman got shitty with me. “Are you finished with that?” I wasn’t sure what she was talking about and said, “Hu?” (Eloquent as always.) “Are you done with that magazine? Maybe some other people would like to read it.” At this point, I had sort of had enough. I had put in about 90 minutes at this point, so I was the Veterano, the battle-scarred OG, and she was just a thug. (Okay, I was a little delirious at this point.) But I was over this shit and beyond pretending to be nice. So I told her that if other people wanted to read, perhaps they should have planned ahead and bought their own like I did. She sighed loudly at stage whispered to her husband that she couldn’t believe I would steal a magazine from the ER.

Around this point, her husband got called in and they both disappeared for a while.

Replacing them was a woman and a 2-year-old she had zero control over. While the woman yakked on the phone, her daughter ran in and out of the front doors, making everyone freeze. The woman finally bellowed across the room at the child, waking everyone who was napping, to get her ass back inside. Then, while mommy still chatted into the phone, the little girl, decided to throw her box of crayons up toward the ceiling. Most of us were too sick to have the reflexes to duck, so we were pelted with raining crayons. After crawling through our feet to pick them all back up, she jumped on chairs, leaned into people’s faces to say hi (while coughing), grabbed their stuff and squealed with delight. It wasn’t until she tried to reach over the chair to grab my Blackberry (I was about to dial 911 for help at this point), that her mother finally told sweet little Sophie to sit her ass down NOW! Actually, I was e-mailing a friend of mine who wondered if death was preferable to the emergency room.

Meanwhile, in the middle of one of my horrendous coughing fits (during which I was struggling to breathe) the woman next to me what diagnosing my cough and telling me that all I needed was a little Vicks Vapo Rub. But I knew better. Bitch was just trying to get me out of there so she could move up a place in line.

Finally, 2 1/2 hours later I got to see a real, live actual doctor. I was in and out of the exam room in 5 minutes.

If I wasn’t sick going into that place I was definitely going to be by the time I left. I was going to demand antibiotics if they didn’t give me something. Anything.

Diagnosis? A cold that turned into a “wicked sinus infection.” Yes, that was the technical diagnosis. He called a prescription over to my pharmacy and I was sent on my way. Of course, nothing should be easy at this point, right? The pharmacy had some problem last night and closed an hour early and I couldn’t get my drugs until this morning.

I’m finally starting to feel better, thank god. But if I take a turn for the worse, I’ll blame it on Urgent Care.

But I did learn one valuable lesson: Monday nights are notoriously the worst days to go to Urgent Care. Apparently, people don’t let sickness interfere with their weekend plans so they save it all up for Mondays.

Granted, she promised to follow anyone who followed her, but whatever. Minor details.

I had dinner Friday night with my best friend. She’s been a part of my life for the past 13 years or so. The first three or four years we were merely co-workers—although I’m sure she saved my bacon on more than one occasion. I was laid off from that job after nearly four years, but she was instrumental in getting me hired in a different division a few months later.

Over the years we’ve gotten closer. She knows me. She knows almost everything about me. She knows about all my ups and downs, my frustrations, my accomplishments. We share our dreams and fears over cocktails and dinner.

Friday night over one of our not-frequent-enough dinners we were talking about Facebook—I’m pro; she’s con. I was yammering on about all these people I’ve reconnected with—old friends from grammar school and high school. For me, it’s been exciting to catch up with people again at this point in my life. People who, for the most part, good friends at one time. Others were acquaintances—kids who were part of a very extended circle—but I’ve enjoyed finally getting to know them now as adults, without all the bullshit and drama of high school insecurity.

My friend doesn’t see it that way. Her thought is that people drift in and out of your life at specific times, and when that time passes, you move on. I’m sort of taking editorial liberties with this, but I think it’s the gist of things. She jokes about having a scrap heap—a jumble of people who have come in to her life and for various reasons have gone. Sometimes it’s a matter of outgrowing friendships. Sometimes it’s a matter of not being treated well by someone. You wash your hands of them, and that’s it. I have my own version of that scrap heap. Very few make it off the heap and back into my life.

So when I was telling her how happy I was that I’ve caught up with specific people, on Facebook, people that I didn’t just drift away from, but had deliberately cut out of my life,  she reminded me that there were reasons I was no longer friends with them, and she pointed out to me the ways that I’ve changed since I’ve becomes so socially active online. And not necessarily in a good way.

I like to think that all this social networking I do is sort of healthy. I am not the most social person I know in real life. Far from it. I’ve always been painfully shy but I’ve tried to overcome that as an adult. But I still get nervous and insecure when I have to meet new people. I still hate the idea of making small talk with a group of people I barely know. It’s not exciting to me or an adventure. I am bad at networking in real life because I can’t stop tripping over my tongue. I get so nervous that a person’s name goes right out of my head. I am full of non-sequitors in conversation because I can’t get out of my own way and listen to whomever I’m speaking to. I wonder if people are calculating how many seconds it will take them to get away from me. I wouldn’t blame them because I’m usually calculating how many feet it is from where I’m standing to the bar.

For me, my online social life is safe. I can relax, hidden behind the security of my lap top. I can take a second to think of what I want to say (although I’m sure I hit Publish too quickly sometimes), which makes me feel witty and smart. I’m fully aware of how pathetic and anti-social this sounds. I don’t really think I’m either thing, though. I do actually leave the house and meet people and have real-life friends and relatively healthy relationships.

But I do wonder if it’s made me a little narcissistic. I think in status updates sometimes—for Facebook and Twitter. I try to think of clever, funny comments that get people’s attention. That all falls in line with sometimes being obsessed with my blog stats.  And none of that is in line with why I started doing any of this to begin with.

I started this blog because I needed a creative outlet. It was never supposed to be about stats and comments. I wanted to start writing again. This blog was supposed to be an online journal of sorts, a place where I could go and write about what I was feeling or thinking with my own little sarcastic twist. Twitter was just supposed to be an extension of IM for me—another way to keep up with friends and see what they’re up to. Soon, my list of people I followed whet from 10 to 180. And, weirdly to me, my list of followers shot up to 175 at one point. Swoon! They want to know what I’m thinking! It’s sort of like Andy Warhol’s concept of 15 minutes of fame. Facebook was definitely meant to be a way to stay in touch with people, but it’s made me a little out of touch with myself, my real-life relationships and the people who matter.

It’s probably a safe assumption that my friends and family are less then thrilled about being surprised on this blog with  big revelations I have about myself and my life. Where I used to talk to them about things, work out issues over long (sometimes uncomfortable) conversations or just have a good laugh, now I sort of vomit ideas on my blog. I have a thought! I must blog! It’s a little chicken shit. Thank god I haven’t found a way to replace cocktails with friends with an online version or I’d probably be friendless right about now.

I’m not saying that I’m going to quit blogging (sorry, you won’t be let off the hook that easily!) or Twittering or even trolling around on Facebook, but I am going to be smart about it. When something is bothering me I will step AWAY from the keyboard and get some good old-fashioned face time with the people who matter. I’ll stop taking all the wrong things so seriously and start remembering what’s important. Without real social connections, nothing else is really real.

(How’s that for Buddah-like insight?!)

I think it’s time to get serious about my health. This is the second time in two months that I’ve gotten sick. I’m not talking about a cold here and there; I’ve been down-and-out sick.

In December I got a cold that turned into bronchitis and a nasty viral infection. I was totally out of commission for two weeks. I missed Christmas and New Year’s Eve.

Two months later—almost to the day—I’m sick again. My cold has turned into a nasty, flu-like thing full of snot and aches. My throat fees like I swallowed a glass of razor blades, and I’m coughing up junk from my lungs again. In other words, I have bronchitis.

I don’t think I ever fully got rid of it the last time, and long work hours, not enough sleep and too many social obligations have sunk me. The good news is, after this weekend, my job will be slowing down and I can return to regular hours. Beyond that, though, I think I have to make some major lifestyle changes.

I don’t eat a lot of fast food, but I do eat out a lot. I try to make good choices—I do eat lots of chicken and some fish and none of it is slathered in heavy sauce—but sometimes I push the salad aside when the french fries beckon. I don’t eat enough fruit and veggies, I drink too much coffee and not enough water.

I’ve been too busy to hit the gym for the last four months and that has had a major impact on my health. I’m not as strong as I used to be, and I think it has affected my immunity. I’ve tried to run when I have the time, but getting sweaty at 10:00 p.m. when it’s 40 degrees outside isn’t the wisest thing I can do.

Priority Number 1 is getting over this thing. Then I’m going to start taking my vitamins, getting more sleep, eating better and working out.

My mom called while I was writing this, and she got all up in my business about being sick again. She even threatened to drive up here to take care of me. If that’s not reason enough to get healthy, then I don’t know what is.

Now I’m going to take some Mucinex, my cough syrup and a shot of tequila and I’m going back to bed.

1. A Monday off for President’s Day. Weekdays away from work feel so decadent.

2. A rainy morning.

3. Watching movies in bed on this rainy Monday morning.

4. A cup of hot tea.

5. Sitting around in my PJs because there’s nowhere I have to be.