So, I'm in Denver. Actually, near Denver - Broomfield to be exact. (Which is everything it's cracked up to be.) Here's how my weekend went.
Friday, 10am. On a call with my manager (our weekly 1:1 meeting) I start to feel odd twinges of pain in my abdomen. By 10:30, the call is mercifully coming to an end as small malicious drunken dwarves with razor blades for finger nails start to twist my entrails with glee. ("Me Gold!" they gloat..)
It's like that scene in Hellboy, when Kroenen stabs agent Clay in the stomach like 12 times in 2 seconds... It's just like that. Every 2 minutes for the next 4 hours! At this point I am blaming food poisoning.
Then the fever sets in.
For the next 15 hours, I rock and turn on the couch, or in bed, or on the floor, riding a pitching rollercoaster of body temperature. (With, of course, the accompanying muscle aches and spasms.)
There's more, of course. Vomit, crap, tears and swearing. The wife is an angel, and deserves her Halo right now. (Pun intended.) My fever broke on Saturday morning, but I was a mess most of that day anyway.
I woke up this morning convinced that I could not possibly be on a plane bound for Denver tonight. 3 minutes wrangling with Sun's after-hours travel consultants corrected that error. Had I tried to postpone the flight by even a day, the airlines would've cancelled my whole itinerary, forcing me to rebook (at super-freaking-high 'last minute rates.') So, thank you airline industry, for ensuring that I've brought my life-threatening, eviscerating, disemboweling, emasculating-ly painful flu bug across 1,500 miles to share with a plane-ful of your passengers (and the lovely city of Broomfield.)