Today is day eight of the flu, and I feel like I’ve stepped into the eighth circle of hell. Not that things have gotten worse–they haven’t, thank god. But they haven’t gotten better either. Indeed, my symptoms continue to drag on, as I do, from one day to the next. My hips ache. I’m exhausted. I’m cranky. I’m generally not amused.

Last week the check-engine light in my car, Tom Collins, came on, so this afternoon I left the house for the first time in seven days to go to the auto parts store for a diagnosis. (They have a fancy diagnosis machine.) Y’all, I hate going to the auto parts store, since I don’t know shit about cars and am easily intimidated by men who have grease under their fingernails. Well, as if this weren’t enough, probably because of the flu, my brain wasn’t working today. As soon as I walked in the store, some burly dude asked me how I was doing, and I started looking around the entire store like I was on Candid Camera. “Uh–good,” I said. “How are YOU?”

It was worse than an awkward first date.

Next I started digging through my pockets for I-don’t-know-what and trying to explain my problem, but all I could manage was, “Car. Engine light.” Well, thank god, the guy figured it out. The next thing I knew he hooked up his handheld diagnostic machine to Tom Collins and had an official diagnosis–random misfiring. “What’s that mean?” I said.

“You probably need to change your spark plugs,” he said.

“What do I need to change my spark plugs?”

“New spark plugs. A wrench.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

Fifteen minutes later I was back home at my parents’ kitchen table with six shiny new spark plugs and a healthy dose of optimism, Googling what to do next. Well, the internet said changing spark plugs in a Hyundai Santa Fe is a teensy bit more complicated than the guy at the store indicated. Like, you have to take the engine apart. Like, one guy on YouTube spent an hour-and-a-half trying to disconnect a single hose. (One hose!) Like, most people go to the dealership and drop a few hundred bucks to have them do it.

Shit.

Thankfully, my father stepped in. Apparently he’s got “a guy” who works on cars, so he called him, and the guy’s supposed to take a look at Tom Collins tomorrow. I can’t tell you how much this overwhelms me. I really don’t handle things well when I’m sick. (Don’t let the calm exterior fool you. I’m basket case inside.) Of course, my parents know this about me. When my dad got off the phone with his car guy, he looked at me and said, “Don’t worry.”

After all of that excitement, I took a nap. Now I’m in the living room trying not to compare myself to the Olympic athletes on the television. Like, that’s a nice gold medal you’ve got there, buddy, but I live with my parents and do my own laundry. Mostly I’ve been thinking about the way an illness can sweep into your life and erase days off your calendar. All of a sudden you’re flat on your back–your life stops–and yet the rest of the world spins on. I suppose this happens to all of us, these random misfirings. One day everything is going your way, and the next you’re in need of a tune-up. As ever, I’m trying to be patient, ever hopeful that both Tom Collins and I will back on the road again soon.