Ib got da bed code

I want to make this clear—I almost never get sick. I don’t like the idea of being sick, so luckily, illness tends to keep its distance. For someone past 50, my blood pressure is almost perfect, my good cholesterol can wipe up the floor with my bad and my perfectly tuned digestive system runs like a train conductor’s pocket watch. This despite the fact that I’m not the most health conscious person and see no danger in just about anything in moderation. But aside from a couple of childhood cases of the flu, a mystery blood ailment that disappeared after my teens, a bad case of measles, food poisoning in my second year of university and the odd random infection—I’m pretty healthy. I was the only still upright inhabitant of my mono-stricken dorm. I’ve never been in the hospital. I have no allergies. I had drug benefits at work for two years before I had to fill a prescription—and that was for antibiotics for a mild ear infection.

However, on the rare occasions when I do get sick—that’s it. I feel like death warmed over. I’m down for the count. For me, a simple cold never is; instead it’s a vicious viral assault. And for the past five days (and the two weeks prior, when I was crunching back Airbornes and washing my hands so often they almost bled) my eyes have been hot and sore, I’m exhausted, my muscles hurt, my nasal passages feel like someone is holding me upside down in the pool and the skin around my nose and my lips is on fire. Apparently, I even had a fever, although my love might have fibbed about that so I’d rest. I even took a sick day—not that I’m such a martyr that I don’t take time off—it’s just that I seldom take it off for me.

I’ll live. I think. I still feel like crap, but it’s temporary. Still, being under the weather always reminds me how much I appreciate the good genes, good health and energy I usually have.

For me, that’s the worst part about being sick. It’s not that everything tastes a little like soap. It’s not that the skin on the bottom of my nose is going to chap at any moment—I can feel it drying and tightening. It’s not the bloodshot eyes or the sweating or the fact that I almost fall asleep in my office after lunch. This afternoon, dragging myself through a mall, sipping a $6 Booster Juice icy concoction of orange juice and yogurt, the only thing that made my throat stop feeling like it was going to dry up and fall out of my body, I realized that the worst thing about being sick is that’s the most boring thing ever. It’s tedious. Time drags. I can’t do the things I want to do. And that… I just can’t handle.

So I’m determined I’m going to be better when I wake up tomorrow. That’s it, I’ve had enough. I want my energy back. Pronto. I have plans. I have lists and deadlines and things to do. I have errands to run and brownies to make (this particular brand of cold seems to make one crave sweets). And too, since there’s a new puppy coming to live with us next week, I have to turn the house inside out making sure it’s safe for her—and safe for the electric cords, shoes, cabinet doors, scatter mats and everything else that is chewable, tearable or easily mistaken for the lawn.

It all comes down to the fact that I simply don’t have time for any more of this runny-nose, coughing, cold chills nonsense. I have no patience with pulling myself through the day. And I am sick and tired or being sick….and …well, tired. So end it must!

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