Ugh. I got sick.
Sometimes when I am bored or silly or just pining for some attention (which doesn't happen to me, the one who hides behind the big plant at parties, very often), I think how nice it would be to get sick. Not unattractively sick, you know, just lying-on-the-couch sick, with a lovely fever and a diminished appetite. I'd get lots of loving care from my sweet devoted husband, bringing me tissues and hot drinks and petting my burning brow. I'd get to catch up on watching tv shows while lying under my cozy fluffy throw blanket, and I'd come out of it refreshed and rested and several pounds lighter.
That was my stupid fantasy; the reality was lots of phlegm, a fever that made my eyes dry out, coughing until my lungs and chest muscles felt ripped apart, and sleeping all day and all night. Funnily enough, I didn't enjoy it all that much when my husband ran to the drugstore to get me medicine and lotiony tissues, and nagged me to drink more juice and take my Mucinex.
I had to call in sick on a day when I knew we were understaffed at work, which made me feel guilty on top of everything else. Then I had to call in sick for several more days, and use up vacation time that I'd been saving. I was finally feeling better (well enough to drag my sorry self back to work, anyway) by last Tuesday, and suffered through three days of coughing/noseblowing grossness at work. Don't feel sorry for my co-workers having to listen to my phlegmminess, though, where do you think I got this contagious plague? :)
I was able to drive 8 hours up to north Georgia for my visit with my Mother on Friday (the 13th), but was unusually exhausted by the time I got there. We still had a great visit, even though I was still more tired than usual.
I really don't get sick very often, this was the first time in years. And now I remember: IT IS NO FUN.