A friend called me yesterday to check in and see how I was feelin’.
Now, in the south, when asked how you’re feelin’, you’re expected to submit a full report, including your mental, emotional and physical status, as well as that of your mama, daddy, significant other, and the going’s on of any young’uns you may have runnin’ around.
If you merely say, “fine,” your friend is likely to think you’re bein’ rude, and that nobody had the good sense to raise you right.
If you are in fact fine, you are fair to middlin’, finer than wine and gooder than snuff, or finer than frog hair split four ways and good as dollar cotton.
If, like me, you’ve been hit by a truck, you’re feelin’ like death warmed over, ouchin’ somethin’ fierce, pitiful as a three-legged dog, worse than a dog passin’ peach pits, got more pains than a boardin’ house window and lower than a bad dog’s belly.
Then again, I suppose you could say, “I feel like I got hit by a truck.”