|Bingley is an expert at sick day couch lounging.|
Being sick sucks. There's really no other way to put it. If you're like me, than the beginning of the new year means more than setting goals and trying to eat more veggies (which I'm totally doing--high five!). It also means the very real probability that at some point I'm going to end up sick. The head-full-of-boogers, body-aching-every-time-I-move, someone-please-come-and-mother-me type of sick.
After spending the first weekend of the new year nursing a cold, this past weekend (and week) I graduated to a delightful sinus infection. I'm running a humidifier in bedroom at night, carrying enough medicines in my purse to put a pharmacy to shame, and considering buying stock in facial tissues (or toilet paper at the moment) because I'm going through it at an exceptional rate.
When I was little, being sick was actually kind of awesome. Sure I felt like hell and wished I could eat something other than soup and crackers, but I also had permission to drink 7-Up or Sprite like it was my job. It also meant getting to stay home from school to re-watch or VHS copies of The Princess Bride, The Little Mermaid, or Look Who's Talking (yeah, I went through a phase with that one). It meant spending the day cuddling with my mom and rearranging the stuffed animals in our pet net while I was supposed to be napping. Like I said, being sick as an 8-year-old is pretty much everything.
Sick days at twenty-eight are a whole different game. I woke up on Tuesday feeling like someday had smacked me with a sheet of plywood across my face and chest. After Googling "Should I stay home from work" (because I don't have my mom sitting there telling me what to do or the ability to make my own decisions) I came to the conclusion that I needed to take a day. But it isn't as much fun as it was when I was a kid.
Oh sure, my sick day still involved some time on the couch watching TV (I hit up Netflix and decided to refresh my memory on the early seasons of Bones, because when you feel like death, you might as well watch shows about people dealing with it) and getting cuddles from the kittens (though both Jane and Bingley were quick to give me the stink-eye every time I coughed and disturbed their peace).
But it also comes with having to make your own runs to the store to buy medicine and supplies. It means having to figure out how to work the new humidifier on your own. It means eating a can of soup with a box of Wheat Thins (which I assume are healthy because they contain the words "wheat" and "thin" in the title), because that's all you have energy to assemble. It also means never being able to completely relax and focus on getting better, because you're worried about the projects awaiting you at work. And if you're also balancing a writing career, it means feeling like you have to at least spend a few minutes messing around with your current manuscript so you can pretend you accomplished something with your day.
The other big difference between being sick at eight and twenty-eight is how much less resilient I am, and how much more I like to whine about feeling unwell.
Speaking of wine... Foolishly thinking I was on the mend, I stocked up my supply of wine during the weekend. And now I have a wine rack taunting me, calling my name, begging to be consumed. But according to WebMD (and whatever else I read while searching "how to treat a cold/sinus infection/allergies"), wine (and alcohol) are apparently bad when dealing with upper respiratory issues because of some sort of nasal lining conflict (or something like that. I'm highly medicated and not a doctor, so I don't really know what I'm talking about).
So what am I getting at with all of this? Honestly, I don't remember. I'm sure I started scribbling this post with every intention of talking about playing hurt or making the best of a bad situation, but I seem to have gotten off topic. Go figure.
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