So, one day you are bragging to the Mister about how lucky you are, and about how it's not just luck, but probably a form of super-humanness that has kept you from being sick all winter even though you spend two days a week working at your kids' preschool.
You muse about your superior cells and how you are being justly rewarded for living so well, for exercising so diligently, for simply being a really great addition to the human race. God is just sending you a personal little thank you note in the form of your virus-free season.
And then—BAM—the next day you are flat on your back, whimpering, ready to barter all future happiness for some medicine that will make the pain and the snot and the misery go away. You're thinking Oxycontin might be strong enough. You toss and moan through fever-dreams of Wurdle. You watch Papillon through blood-shot eyes and think solitary confinement, sure, but could Steve McQueen survive this cold? You fill trash can with your snotty tissues and miss your family trip to Tahoe.
You have this conversation with your three-year-old son:
Mommy, I don't want you to die.
(looking up from my spot on the couch, crusty but somehow lovely)
Don't worry, I'm not going to die.
No, never (no need to worry him now)
Good. Because I think you are fantastic.
And then you emerge to blog another day. Your nose is scaly and your cough still gurgling, but you emerge from your cocoon of self pity. And thankfully, there are chai lattes and that weird kale and peanut butter soup the Mister made to ease your way.
Hello, world. It's nice to see you again.
* buy those pretty tissue box covers HERE.