Know what’s been keeping me up at night lately? My frickin’ cold, that’s what. Every time I lay down I start coughing and drooling indiscriminately; it’s not conducive to sleep. I admit that I’m a big baby when I’m sick (I can hear you all gasping with surprise). I’m not proud of it, but I tend to be one of those people that mope around, the odd groan punctuating my quiet suffering. I answer questions regarding my health in a voice that’s maybe a tad more hoarse than it needs to be … I’m pathetic.
Being sick always makes me wish I were a kid again. When I was little and I got sick a whole series of wonderful things would happen. I got to skip school and lay in my parent’s bed all day while I watched The Price is Right. I got to spend the day with my dad; watching him draw in our dining room and bang around the kitchen making dinner. I got to have my parents focus all of their attention on me, hopefully at the expense of my three younger siblings.
Being sick as an adult is completely unrewarding. It just means that I have to run errands and go to work in pissy mood. At least I’ve got a roommate for this bout of sickness. B is sick too, so he and I have spent the past few days feeling miserable together. Right now we’re both wrapped up in blankets in our living room watching episodes of That '70's Show and drinking tea. B says his favorite thing about being sick when he was little was definitely watching daytime TV: seeing Shining Time Station and Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood.
When I got strep throat in second grade I managed to dig up a silver bell from somewhere. I spent two weeks convalescing on our living room couch, ring-a-linging whenever I needed more orange juice. That got old pretty quickly, and I’m not sure B would respond favorably if I started summoning him with a bell. More later kiddos. I’m headed to bed.