Tuesday, 19 October 2010

I HATE being sick.

Ther's really no other way to put it.  I, simply put, effing HATE being sick.  

Of my very long list of things I hate, being sick is damn near the top.  

I hate so many things about being sick that I should make an entire list just devoted to illness alone - like a sub-list of things I hate about things I hate.  

Obviously, I hate that I feel like shit.  That achy joints and sore throat feeling. That hot...cold...no, wait, hot again feeling.  That post-nasal-drip-gonna-make-me-puke feeling.  That I-can't-breathe-and-yet-can't-for-the-love-of-god-unplug-my-nose feeling, and the related if-I-blow-my-nose-one-more-time-my-brain-is-going-to-blow-out-my-eyes-and-ears feeling.  And, finally, that I'm-so-hungry-I-might-faint feeling that is so closely linked to the if-Hubby-mentions-tuna-one-more-time-I'm-going-to-projectile-vomit-on-him feeling.  

Not fun.  

Some people like that they get to skip work, but let me tell you: it ain't worth it.  First of all, I was sick all day Sunday anyway, which just wasted my weekend.  And I'll only have more work to catch up on when I go back anyway.  

And beyond that, it's. so. effing. boring.  All of the physical feeling like shit is magnified by wanting to attack Drew Carey with his own damn Plinko board, and plotting to murder Barbara Wawa for being subjected to her old, rich, white lady "views".

Even with Hubby taking care of me (which he is very good at - bringing me apples and toast, rubbing my neck, and comforting me in general), it's no damn picnic.   

Not only do I have to nurse my illness and my murderous rage for daytime tv hosts, but my hips, back, and legs hurt from sitting on the effing couch all day.  Even when I try to get up, I can barely walk to the fridge without falling over.  And when I think I have the strength to go upstairs (to at least bathe), I end up doing that walk/crawl thing up the stairs until I'm simply a pathetic, out-of-breath, heap of shame at the top of the landing.  

Even when I get to bed, I end up with effing restless leg syndrome while I'm trying to sleep (which I can't do anyway, because I'm a hot-cold, nose-plugged, head-throbbing, gonna-puke mess).

Hubby might say I'm a baby.  He might even go as far to say that he would rather be sick himself - not because he'd rather endure the discomfort instead of me, but because taking care of me when I'm sick is a full time job that isn't really as rewarding as a full time job oughta be.  


He takes care of me anyway, of course.  Perhaps because he knows that just because he never gets sick, I still take care of him all the time.  

Oh, and because he loves me, I suppose.  

In any case, being sick SUCKS.  He can't argue with that.  Nobody can.


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