04 August 2009

Sicko

I’m sick.

This blog probably won’t be very funny as a result, because nothing is funny when you’re sick. Especially if you’re an adult. Double especially if you’re an adult with kids, because (1) no one feels sorry for you because you exist only to attend to their needs; and (2) you can’t take any sick time from work because you’ve already used all your sick time on your damn kids.

It all started Saturday. The husband and I dumped the toddler at Grandma’s house and went to the local amusement park—by ourselves. Which meant we didn’t have to waste time standing in line for the sissy rides and were able to ride our favorite roller coasters at least twice. Which meant I did a lot of screaming, because I scream like a little bitch when I’m plummeting to the earth at warp speed. After probably our third or fourth ride, however, I had to force myself to stop screaming because my throat was getting sore.

Sunday morning, I woke up feeling dreadful. It seemed someone had snuck up on me in the middle of the night and unloaded two bottles of Elmer’s Glue into my nostrils. And my throat was screaming bloody murder. Plus I felt beaten about the head and shoulders as a result of being knocked about on roller coasters (and being over 18). I took a hot shower and some ibuprofen and was seemingly back to normal by midday. I figured my malaise had been the result of screaming and having various allergens crammed into my sinus cavities by the force of the wind.

Then yesterday hit, and I noticed my sore throat wasn’t getting any better. If anything, it appeared to be getting worse. Plus I had that slightly asthmatic feeling in my chest that generally signals the onset of a cold. Considering the firstborn is coming up on two weeks of a barking cough and the toddler had a round of gooey eyes last week, I can’t say I’m surprised. I can, however, say I’m pissed.

I fucking hate being sick. I know, few people get their jollies from a good virus or bacterial infection, but I really hate being sick. Being sick is a luxury I haven’t the time nor money to enjoy. I have too much to do, and I barely get it all done on a normal, healthy day. Not to mention I’ve foregone antidepressants for adrenaline, and when I can’t get to the gym for a few days, I get grumpy.

The only time I enjoy—well, not enjoy, but maybe “mind less”—being sick is that rare occasion when I get something seriously awful. Something that involves projectile bodily fluids of any kind. Something with delirium-inducing body temperatures and profuse sweating. The kind of illness that renders you damn near lifeless and makes going anywhere further away than the bathroom or the sofa a non-issue.

Unfortunately, I am most often struck with the Common Cold. The sort of illness that isn’t life-changing enough to freak people out and make them demand your quarantine. If you have a cold, you may be miserable, but you can still function. Your boss will still expect you to show up to work regardless of your sniffling-sneezing-coughing-aching-stuffy-head-fever-I-hate-my-life state. And your co-workers will hate you, because they all know it’ll be your fault when they’re in the same position next week. (Except for your co-workers who are single and/or don’t have kids. They won’t give a shit, because they kill 98.9% of all germs they’re exposed to with copious amounts of alcohol every night, and the few bugs that survive have a full bank of sick leave to draw from. Assholes.)

So, sorry, but I can’t be funny today. And I probably won’t be funny tomorrow, either. Sometimes situations aren’t in your control. Deal with it.

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