Saturday, September 21, 2013

Ah, Crap ...

I am sick.

I rarely get sick.

Because I am fastidious about hand-washing and am an overzealous user of hand sanitizer.

Also, I work from home most of the time, where there is zero chance that a co-worker will pass along some nasty bug.

But the past six working days were spent in a client's office, where selected people were sneezing and coughing and otherwise relating that their children were sick and they were trying to ward off illnesses.

Well, that didn't work.

I specifically remember looking at the glass of water on my desk and wondering what might have settled in it as my officemates expelled.

I specifically stood up and walked into the kitchen and washed my glass with hot, soapy water and refilled it before I continued drinking.

I suspect that that did not do much good.

So I've been doing my best to ward off the sickness with the powers of my mind – "I will not get sick, I will not get sick, I will not get sick ..." – but, yeah, that didn't work.

Yesterday, post-shower, pre-leaving for work, I had that hit-by-a-truck sensation come over me. But I went in. I was filling in for someoone. I couldn't very well leave the office in the position of needing to find someone to fill in for the person who was filling in. And I felt mostly OK as they day wore on.

I fell asleep before 9 p.m. last night, but I chalked that up to a general sleep deficit.

And this morning I woke up feeling mostly OK so I went for a walk. Though I wasn't too far into it when my head said, "What the hell are you doing?" Woo, a bit woozy. But just a bit.

So I kept going and accomplished what I set out to do and then made it home and vowed to spend the day inside.

This lovely, sunny, mildly temperatured, last-day-of-summer day.

My head started to get stuffier as the day wore on.

I pondered downing a couple of spoonfuls of Dijon.

That would do the trick.

Later, I realized that I couldn't breathe through half of my nose.

"Nothing sexier than a mouth-breathing sick woman. Men are lining up outside," I tweeted.

And then I thought I should go and get some food.

So I got in the car and pointed it toward the Chinese joint. And then decided I didn't want Chinese. But I figured I should have something so I drove around until I decided that no, in fact, I did not want anything. Nothing appealed to me in any real way. I did briefly ponder Subway, which I almost never eat, but I don't trust the smell of the place near my home. I don't know if the smell is the result of cleaning product or a body buried beneath the floor, but the one time I was in there, it worried me that it didn't smell sandwich-y or baking-bread-y or neutral, it smelled off.

And even with my stuffy nose, I am disinclined to patronize places that smell.

So here I sit, crumpled (unused) tissue on the arm of the chair – which I removed from the pocket of my fleece jacket, lest I wash the fleece jacket and forget the tissue, and open up the washer to find my clothes flecked with white – and thinking, "I am now the woman who stashes tissues in her clothing."

Can a housecoat be far behind?

Maybe leather-soled slippers that can also function as shoes?

Moth balls. I should probably pick up some moth balls.

And Epsom salts. And I don't even know what Epsom salts do.

But I feel like I should have them.

And maybe a shower cap. To protect my hairdos that I will start getting once a week, sitting under dryers alongside women named Harriet and Dot, we with our identical wash-and-dry sets. But first, I'll need hair the color of a lot of fishing line.

I'm not quite there yet.

And, thankfully, I have no idea where to buy a housecoat.

Though I bet they're pretty comfortable.


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