Eighty days to go.
It took Phileas Fogg eighty days to go around the world to win the bet with the chaps at the Reform Club.
It sounded like a ludicrous amount of time, and yet an insanely short amount of time.
If I wanted to jump on a plane today and go around the world, I don’t think it would take me eighty hours. Not that I would want to be anywhere near a plane these days. Just thinking about the edema I’d have to deal with afterward is deterrent enough. But back at the turn of the century, eighty days was quite the derring-do. Phileas Fogg was a man’s man, and above all he was a BRITISH man’s man. Because, after all, back then Great Britain was the empire upon whom the sun never set, and a British gent was never late, and had the latest comforts and technology at his fingertips. For the times, anyway.
These days a statement phrased thusly evokes thoughs of New York City perhaps, but never mind that.
The point is that eighty days was momentous.
In a way, eighty days is still very significant, as is Phileas Fogg’s eccentric bet. People still strive to break records all the time, and while travel is much more efficient these days, Phileas Fogg and Passepartout are still awesome.
And eighty days are significant for me. Because in some ways I wonder if going back to more innocent times where women didn’t know so much about their bodies and what ailed them wasn’t somehow a little simpler. Or a little more sanity-saving. Case in point to follow:
I’m such a ridiculous little hypochondriac on occasion. Behold my utter stupidity: I spent the better part of yesterday thinking I had developed PUPPP on one hemisphere of my body. Yes. I had wheals the size of marbles on my toe, belly, palm of my hand and elbow. I still do, but yesterday they itched like hell. All of them, in a horrible conspiracy, making me think that somehow the news of my possible gestational diabetes and mild anemia had somehow spread to my skin –courtesy of a gossipy capillary or two– who’d in turn proceeded to act very dramatically and sorrow-stricken, thus flaring itself up in horror and despair–but only on my LEFT SIDE.
My body organs: better than Mexican soap operas (in my mind).
As it turns out, a fellow pregnant female betrayed me in my most vulnerable of states.
Read: a dumbass mosquito lady bit me while I was asleep. And she bit me only on my left side, leaving nifty little welts to terrify me and send me down the road of agony for the next six or seven hours after discovering their existence.
I know. I really need to quit it. But perhaps this will all be nothing but a risible little episode when I go back and read this in many, many months.
As in… “oh….. boy, was mommy a total NUT JOB when there were but eighty days left to meet you! Ha ha… ha ha hahahahaha HA!”
Someday I will laugh, at any rate.