At college a professor told the story of how he knew he was an adult when both he and his wife had a terrible case of the stomach flu, yet someone still had to change his son's poopy diapers.
The story has lingered in my imagination, strongly linked to the response: "YES! Adulthood! I bet it rocks!"
But now this same situation (minor differences, beginning dialogue: "How do you flush the toilet?" "Oh, you know—show me!" "I'm afraid to." [Internal, unprintable response]) has happened for me—because, yes, my fabulous immune system let me in for a worse case than anyone else had and which has just returned after a day's intermission—and somehow the whole thing really doesn't rock as much as I'd expected. I think I was imagining the graduate degree and vocation came part and parcel with the re-exposure to the same thing that made you sick in the first place. Or at least that there would be balloons and dachshunds. Or dachshunds the shape of balloons. Or even salt and pepper shakers.
