Boosted Into Oblivion

Well folks, after weeks of gnawing my fingernails down to nubs, hitting “refresh” like a lab rat on the Walgreens appointment page, and calling every pharmacy tech in a 30-mile radius like a deranged stalker, I did it. I scored my fall Covid booster. 🎉

Monday, I strutted into that CVS like a champion gladiator. “Arm, please!” I chirped, imagining myself walking out with antibodies flexing like Schwarzenegger. I’d done my civic duty! I was protected! The virus didn’t stand a chance!

Cut to 24 hours later: I am a human puddle. A sentient pile of laundry that never made it into the dryer. I feel like absolute shit.

Now, vaccines usually knock me sideways. Some give me a day of sluggishness, some gift me with a pounding headache. But this one? Oh no. This one is a MOTHER. The grand dame of immune system bitch-slaps. She waltzed in like Joan Crawford in Mommie Dearest screaming, “No wire hangers!” and proceeded to redecorate my entire nervous system.

Let’s review the highlight reel:

• Chills so intense I could’ve made popsicles just by holding water glasses.
• A headache that made me question whether my brain was slowly trying to squeeze out of my ears.
• Joints creaking like a 100-year-old farmhouse in a windstorm.
• And fatigue—dear sweet fatigue—that made “walking to the bathroom” feel like a triathlon.

And the kicker? You can’t even complain too loudly, because the second you whimper, someone pops up with, “Well, at least you don’t have Covid!” True. Very true. But also: let me live my drama! I EARNED it.

This is the twisted paradox of modern life: You spend weeks begging for a shot, like a Dickensian orphan—“Please sir, may I have some Moderna?”—only to finally get it and then curse its very existence as you sweat through your sheets at 3 a.m.

Still, there’s something oddly comforting about knowing my immune system is out here throwing a rave in my lymph nodes. The side effects are basically my body’s way of saying, “Congratulations, you’ve hired a personal bouncer for your cells.” Of course, the bouncer is drunk, belligerent, and keeps kicking me in the ribs, but hey—security’s security.

I’m trying to treat it like a seasonal tradition now. Fall: the leaves change, pumpkin spice lattes appear, and I collapse into bed after getting jabbed in the arm. Winter: cozy sweaters, Christmas cookies, and the return of feeling like a functional human. Spring: allergies. Summer: sunburn. The circle of life.

Would I do it again? Absolutely. I’ll whine, I’ll moan, I’ll roll my eyes at my own suffering—but I’ll line up again next year like the obedient lab rat I am. Because frankly, Covid sounds worse than my Joan Crawford reenactment.

So if you need me, I’ll be right here on the couch, clutching a heating pad like it’s my emotional support animal, groaning every time I have to stand, and reminding myself that this is what being a responsible adult looks like in 2025. Forget homeownership or paying off your credit cards—responsible adulthood is scheduling your boosters on a Monday and then regretting every life choice until Thursday.

Here’s to fall. Here’s to vaccines. And here’s to feeling like garbage in the name of public health.

Julie Bolejack, MBA