Three-hundred-and thirty-six hours.
That’s how long I’ve currently been fighting – and losing horribly – an illness of unknown origin. Personally, I think I’ve been cursed by disgruntled gypsies with an axe to grind over runny eggs at breakfast. Either way, you’re looking at a man who rarely gets sick at all. And yet, I can’t shake this cold.
This cold is stuck to me like controversy on Donald Trump. My head has been fuzzier than a Wookie in the Arizona desert. My lungs have been infested with more phlegm than Kim Kardashian has cellulite. I have as much energy as a corpse.
In other words, I’m a helluva catch right now, ladies.
The question is now two-fold:
ONE: How long can I remain in this state without finally expiring – either by sickness, my own frustrated hand or my wife’s?
TWO: Can I at least milk a post out of this disaster?
I have no idea how much longer I’ll be sick but I know I’m too much of a coward to end my life. The wife, on the other hand, has no problem ending me – but I’ve tried not to be too much of a burden these last two weeks, so we’re not there yet. As for the possibility of a post…
Well, you’re reading it, baby. So just how sick have I been?
I’ve been so sick… I actually sang along to “Careless Whisper” while I was scanning the radio (yes, people still listen to radios, kids), the other day. To be fair, the power was out while our house was being rewired so I had to go old school and break out the ole zombie apocalypse wind-up radio. Fever-induced karaoke sucks, kids.
My butt was glued to the couch for four straight days during Week One of Flupocalypse 2016, that’s how sick I was. Luckily, my trusty canine sidekick, Chelsea, remained by my side – in this case, my lap – virtually the entire time. She made it next to impossible to get up whenever I felt like it, but that’s life with a pet, kids.
I’ve been so sick… the blog has slipped completely away from my list of daily priorities. Normally, I’d be a few posts ahead, but no more. And now you know where the concept of this post really came from…
My normal “drive” vanished two weeks ago – and it has yet to rear it’s head (pun intended). Granted, the wife has received a sorely-needed break from our normal routine of live-action Coyote/Road Runner pursuits around the house. Though, to be fair, a better analogy would be Pepe Le Pew and that poor cat that always seems to wind up with a stripe on her back. I haven’t even held my wife’s hand in fourteen days, never mind holding anything else….
I now own a controlling interest in Kleenex® Tissues. It was actually more cost-effective than continuing to buy cases of the stuff.
My family has had the pleasure of seeing me swallow Buckley’s® cough suppressing liquids, a ritual that has become legendary in our home.
- The wife gets out the bottle – regardless of how well I’ve hidden it – pours a generous amount and forces me to drink it down.
- I protest.
- My protests continue for about twenty minutes.
- I lose. (Big shock, right?)
- The most horrid creation known to man goes down my throat.
- I race to the bathroom, usually after dodging my wife who tries to block my path as she and my daughter laugh uncontrollably.
- I shove my head under the tap and pour copious amounts of water down my throat.
- I eat an apple to take the aftertaste away.
- “You’re never doing that to me again! I’d rather die next time… so just let me go!”
And that’s how sick I’ve been.
See you in the lobby – and the pharmacy – kids…