I am sick. I am sick and I live alone. I am sick and I live alone which means that certain things have to get done (like feeding the felines) and no one else is going to do them for me (like feeding myself). So despite the fact that I’d like nothing more than to snug down under freshly laundered sheets (ah, there is another…laundry) with a hot cup of sweet honey lemon tea (oh, I’d have to make the tea too), I drag myself out of bed, dose myself with cold medicine (yeah, had to walk my sickly self to the store to get that too) and take care of whatever bit of business has to be done (like going to work to make enough money to pay the rent, feed said felines and self, wash the laundry and buy tea).
Not that I’m complaining. In fact I take quite a bit of pride in the high level of self sufficiency I seem capable of maintaining even though I basically feel like my brain has been replaced with warm mashed potatoes, my sinuses are stuffed full of cotton balls and my joints have taken on a second career in Jello imitation.
And there is most definitely an upside. For instance, the odd contortions that any woman performs when squeezing herself into a pair of ‘control top’ tights are made infinitely more unappealing when accompanied by the huffing, puffing grunt-like sounds made by me thanks my inability to breathe through my nose. Speaking of noses, despite my regular use of Sudafed and soft lotion kissed tissues, mine is still bright red and sore and it whistles each time I exhale (a sound made only marginally less annoying by my newly discovered talent for nose whistling the Jeopardy theme). I can choose to convalesce on the couch, or in bed, or in a bubble filled tub without fear of being in anyone’s way. And there is no one around to try to convince me that a soup made of chicken broth, left over rice, Swiss chard and Frank’s Red Hot isn’t only tasty as all get out, but I’m pretty sure it’s the undiscovered cure for the common cold.
Yum. Sluuuuurrrrppp…whistle. Sluuuuuuuurp….whiiiiiiiiistle.
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