By SHARON RANDALL
When my husband asked me what I wanted to do over the weekend, I thought fast.
(Here's a tip: If somebody asks you what you want to do, you'd best think of something or you can end up watching 12 hours of football on TV.)
"Well," I said, rubbing my hands together, "let's see. OK, tonight after you get off work, I want to get in the car and drive four hours to Williams, Ariz."
He raised an eyebrow.
"We'll stay there overnight," I said, sounding like Christie Brinkley hawking a Bowflex. "Then we'll wake up and take the train to the Grand Canyon!"
The eyebrow flat-lined and I dropped the sales pitch.
"I'm hungry to see fall, OK?" I said. "I figure that's as close as I can get to it this year."
When you grow up in the Blue Ridge Mountains, you never lose your taste for fall even if -- by some quirk of fate that proves God has a sense of humor -- you end up living in a neon desert called Sin City.
My husband knows how I feel about fall. He knew it could be a problem when he married me. He tries to be sympathetic, usually. Not this time.
Sorry, he said, he needed to work Sunday. Maybe we'd go next weekend. Then, as if to offer a consolation prize, he said, "Wanna get a flu shot?"
I am not making that up. That is what he said. And that is how we ended up, not feasting on the gold of the aspens at the Grand Canyon, but waiting in line for two days for a flu shot.
Did I say two days? I meant two hours, two of the precious few that we have left to live.
I knew something was up when I saw 15 people in line by the pharmacy, looking as glum as a herd of cows standing around waiting to get milked.
An attractive elderly woman was seated in one of the few available chairs. I smiled, all friendly-like. "Been here long?"
She shot me a look. "Two hours," she said, "and it looks like another hour to go."
I wanted to ask if I could have her chair after she finished with it, but she nodded off again.
We added our names to the end of the list and filled out forms electronically. This was supposed to speed up things.
Then my husband wandered off to buy a magazine. (I had a cat that wandered off once. When he came back, I didn't let him in.) Meanwhile, I roamed the aisles looking for things I ought to get while I was there.
You'd be amazed at all the stuff you can buy while waiting in line for a flu shot.
My husband came back with a National Geographic and took a seat in the electric massage chair. I sat next to him in the blood-pressure booth and checked my pressure 500 times.
"Should I get a pneumonia shot, too?" he asked.
"Sure," I said. "They use really big needles for that."
Finally, we got our shots and left, not for home, but for the gym, because one of us wanted to work out and the other didn't want to admit she'd just as soon stand in line a few more hours.
Today my husband got shot again, this time with the H1N1 vaccine. (He wanted me to get it, too, but I, oh darn, didn't fit the criteria.) And tonight he came home from work with a headache and a sore arm.
Far be it from me to say I told him so. I took his temp (my hand is more accurate than any thermometer), wrapped him in a quilt and brought him his dinner on a tray. If I get sick, he will probably do the same for me.
It's called being married.
Sometimes you get to go to the Grand Canyon. Other times you just get shot. Either way, you've got each other's back.
I hope he's better by Friday. I'm still hungry to see fall.
Sharon Randall can be contacted at P.O. Box 777394, Henderson, NV 89077 or at randallbay@earthlink.net. Distributed by Scripps Howard News Service.