Getting Down with the Sickness

This is the first time I came down with any sort of sickness since having been here, and I am a little upset it was not something more fun or exotic, like Traveler's Diarrhea, Malaria or Cholera. That would make for a much better story than, "I came down with the sniffles that my housemates had last week."

That said, being sick, and 3000 miles from anyone that knows me, makes for a miserable sick day. Usually, when you are sick and someone who cares about you is there, you can squeeze out a free meal, can use the pity to get you out of chores, and usually get to watch what you want on TV. When you are sick and alone, making food, taking showers, and so on becomes a testament of will.

I woke up with a completely congested head. The sort of congestion that makes you suddenly aware of how much more your head weighs when filled with a viscous green fluid. Had I been at home, I would have moaned and groaned until someone got me a bagel and some juice. Here, I had to stumble down stairs, trying to balance this new head on my sickened shoulders to get my cereal and milk. Then, I stumbled back upstairs and ate the uninspiring cereal in silence, drank my milk, and tried to figure out who was going to take care of all the refuse. I was sick, after all. I shouldn't be taking care of my plates and spoons; I should be laying down, watching ESPN while my family tip-toes around the house.

Being apart from people when you are sick sucks, but so does being a grown-up. I had to work today, despite being congested. When I was seven, this sort of request would have seemed strange to me. Excuse me, I would think, but I have to blow my nose regularly. Clearly I can't do math. Luckily, there was a drop-hours call out, so I truncated my shift and was spared from having to grade essays in a stuffed-up stupor.

But my adult responsibilities don't end there. I have a paper due on Wednesday, and a significant amount of reading to get done between then and now. So, I stumbled over to my bed with the ever entertaining Longman Critical Reader: Narratology and tried to plow through some dense, quasi-mathematical descriptions of the narrative process when I should have curled up under the covers and watched cartoons.

I am still in my pajamas, at 6:30 at night, trying to get the will up to cook myself something for dinner. Or at the very least, make a sandwich. The kitchen is downstairs, though, and the dishes need to be washed. I'm sick, I whine to myself, this is just unfair.