Two hours before quitting time on Friday I get this tickle in my throat. You know the one. That little portent of doom that will soon take over your whole world, and you can’t do anything about it.
I had such plans. The weather was going to be great. I was going to take the dogs to an off leash park. I was going to sit in the back yard and soak up the sun. I even contemplated washing the car.
On the way home I stopped at the pharmacy for orange juice, ibuprofen and Nyquil. Supplies for the coming siege. Get them now or not at all. That’s one of the sucky things about being single. By the time I got home I had a fever.
I spent the entire weekend flat on my back, except when the dogs insisted on being fed. Heartless bastards. But I must say they kept me company during my frequent hot baths. “Why is mommy trying to boil herself?” “And who will feed us if she drowns?” they said to each other with looks of great concern as they kept the bathmat warm and listened to my moans.
I encased myself in flannel. I had strange dreams. You know your snoring is bad when it even wakes you up. My nostrils slammed shut. I contemplated marrying my Neti Pot, but then I realized my last name would then be Pot, and that would never do.
The worst part about it is that I didn’t like the person who gave me this cold even before she gave it to me. Will the abuse never end? Honestly.
I have vague memories of talking to a friend who tried to calmly explain to me why boiling my head in a vat of chicken soup would be a bad idea. “The soup is supposed to go in you. You’re not supposed to go in the soup.” It seemed like a good idea at the time.
Times like these, I really miss my mother. She was great when I was sick. I want sympathy. I turn into a whiny brat when I’m feeling punk. Sniffle. I need a hug.
[Image credit: jnassi.com]