Waah! I’m sick and I’m going to complain about it. Deal.
I have a mild head cold that I’m 100 percent certain came from my husband Doo because he insisted on breathing – breathing – at night in our bed. The audacity of the man. Anyhoo, just as he was perking up, I started to go downhill. Sneezing, headache, congestion, the works. Of course, no fever, so I can’t garner any real sympathy, but still. I’m going to take a moment to wallow in my misery.
Because besides not feeling great and consequently sleeping like poo on fire, I’m missing out on what was supposed to be a glorious commitment-free weekend. I’d planned to do a little post-birthday shopping, get caught up on grading papers, maybe even waste a few hours searching online for my dream Tuscany farmhouse situated perfectly between a small hamlet and a train line. Instead, I’m plopped on the couch, nose raw from the off-brand tissue I insisted on buying to save a stupid 13 cents and slightly loopy from a Benadryl-Dayquil combo that, in retrospect, I’m deeply regretting. The sunshine is aggressively mocking me, and Doo keeps tiptoeing around, not exactly sure what is happening.
I’ll tell you what’s happening. I’m losing my gosh darn mind. I hate being incapacitated, especially when there isn’t anything I can do and I don’t have football or F1 to distract me (the NBA is dumb and college basketball is dead to me this year. RIP, Louisville). I know the drill – fluids, rest, chicken noodle whatever – but I just want to be well again. For the love!
So waah, waah, waah! I’m sick.
Peace out.
