He's Just a Spoonful of Sugar

Being sick takes the jam out of my doughnut.

I like having time off from work. I get to sleep in. Take my time in the shower. Slip into something comfortable and inappropriate if there was anyone else at my apartment. Then I sit down on the couch with a book or the remote control and realize exactly why I am not at work.

My head hurts. My stomach is upset. The toast I made for breakfast looks most unappetizing. The book I'm trying to read gives me a headache and the tv makes me dizzy. I can't sleep because I just woke up. Moving about the house is a task comparable to Hercules' 12 labors.

So I sit. Bored. I'd think if the wheels in my brain weren't so rusty. I'd compose a blog if the letters would hold still on the keyboard.

"Daannaaaa!! I want more ibuprofen."

"Ok, sweetheart. You're going to have to get it yourself."

"But why?! I don't wanna get up."

"I know, but you text me. I'm at work and I can't come home to get you meds. Drink lots of water and try to sleep."

Nuts. It was worth a shot.

The rest of the day I continue to whine at Dana via SMS and patiently she responds with loving messages.

"Rub my feet. Sing to me. Make my head stop throbbing."

"I'll be home in 3 hours."

"Come now!"

"I'll be home in an hour."

"Sooner!"

"I'm on my way."

"TELEPORT!"

I could be described as an impish brat when it comes to illness. I have been called "princess" more than once. In the heat of the moment, I really don't care, though. I just want it to go away, and I'll tell anyone willing to listen. Interestingly, not many people are willing to listen for very long. I can't imagine why.

What's your sick story?