For the last couple of months, folks around me have been getting sick. Seems like every time I talked with someone, either they or a family member was sick. Then sick again. And again.
And while I’ve thought the thought that I dare not express, the one that would assure me to be a viable target for viruses and bacteria and all other kinds of nasties, about a week ago, I actually made the mistake of verbalizing it.
I said, “You know, I’ve been really lucky this season. I haven’t been sick once.”
Boom! That was it. The Sickness gods heard me and pointed their fingers my way, having caught me cowering under the covers desperately trying to hide from them, but to no avail.
Now, I am sick.
We’re going on Day Four of Feeling Icky, and I’m bored. Folks on Facebook keep asking me what’s wrong because, of course, I’m still posting on there. Why not? I might as well infect my phone and the computer. As the old saying goes, If Momma Ain’t Happy, Ain’t Nobody Happy.
Um, not that I’m the Momma of my phone and computer. You get the point.
So what’s wrong? My head hurts. I’ve got sinus stuff. My throat feels like sandpaper. Oh joy of joys, I’ve got “what’s going around.” And I’m not too happy about it.
You know what’s just as bad as feeling sick, though? I am now officially getting on my own nerves.
I used to think that my husband was a big baby when he got sick because he would moan and groan over a scratchy throat so much that you would have thought someone cut off his leg and arm and were beating him over the head with them every five minutes. But since we promised to be with one another “through sickness and health,” I took care of him. I made sure he had liquids to drink, soup to eat, and movies to watch when he was sick.
Often, when I was sick, I would work right through it. Unless something really hit me hard, I would keep going. After all, there was stuff to get done, and it had to get done right now.
Okay, it actually had to get done “right,” but that’s a whole other column.
When I woke up a few days ago feeling like a truck hit me, my husband said to take it easy. Lie down. Get some rest.
I’ve done that. While the icky stuff going on with me is progressing, which means I know it’s on the way out, it’s taking its own sweet time.
And, I, dear readers, have become my husband.
I feel exhausted. I feel lousy. Worst of all, I feel whiny. Like the whiniest whiny whiner there ever was.
My husband, in his infinite wisdom, keeps telling me to rest and take care of myself. But I work from home. My office is just a short walk from my bedroom. While I lie in bed catching up on all the shows that everyone else has been talking about for years like “Downton Abbey” and “The Newsroom,” I keep thinking that I should go in and work.
I could just do a little work, right?
“Wrong,” says my husband. “You know how you are. You’ll just keep working. Then you’ll be even sicker, and you’ll feel even worse, and you’ll miss work for even longer.”
Sigh…I know he’s right.
I’ll head back to bed and rest.
I’ll drink liquids and take naps.
I’ll read books and magazines.
You know, if I didn’t feel so bad, this would be a pretty nice vacation.
Oh, and do me a favor: don’t tell my husband that I wrote this column. I’m supposed to be resting.
That said, I think I’ll go check out “Breaking Bad.”
Michele Wojciechowski, when she’s not blowing her nose, coughing, and whining, writes “Wojo’s World® from Baltimore.