V is for Virus

It seems my white blood cells have been caught with their proverbial pants pooled around their chubby little ankles.  A malevolent invader has slunk past my defenses and managed to reduce me to a sniffling, feverish, exhausted mute vainly attempting to choke down a blinding inferno.  I have consumed gallons of tea, hives of honey, and tureens of chicken noodle soup.  My children are becoming proficient in interpreting my hastily thrown together version of throat-on-fire-can’t-talk sign language and my husband is finishing my sentences before I can put pen to paper.

I could view this turn of events as an opportunity to marvel at how self-sufficient my family has become during this invasion which has left me unable to scrounge up the energy to open a box of crackers.  Or I could believe it to be a sign that I’ve been pushing too hard, doing too much too quickly and I should slow down and take things as they come.

Either way, being sick sucks and I’m probably going to take Option 3: whine and bitterly complain until I feel better.  I’ll be drugged up on acetaminophen, antihistamines and decongestants and sucking on Halls in a steaming bubble bath if you need me.  And if you’re brave enough to enter my personal virus-induced hell, please bring chocolate.  I’m sick, I deserve it.

0 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

I pulled the comforter up over my ear, snuggling down into the bed, consolidating whatever warmth could be found. It was well past midnight, but I couldn’t seem to get settled. My thighs ached from tr

Anyone else now in their 50s, but still have no clue what they want to do with their life? Don’t get me wrong. I’ve done some cool things in my life: Flown a jet at 45,000 feet while viewing the North