The Plague

Well I went all last week without a post, and that's mostly because I was stricken down in the prime of my life by The Plague (capitalized, as all my illnesses are).  I went to bed Friday with sugarplums and shirtless firemen dancing in my head (or whatever married women are supposed to dream about) and Saturday I woke up something else.  I was no longer a woman, I was a tissue beast with a voice like an autotuner stuffed with ether soaked cotton balls.  Husband couldn't have been more pleased.

I spent the next week switching between moaning in bed, and moaning on the couch while neglecting hygene, Husband, and cat alike and swearing that I was going to die.  Because I was pretty certain that I had THE PLAGUE AND I WAS GOING TO DIE. 

100% of the time is spent telling Husband how I'm going to DIE.

Now, don't get me wrong.  Healthy and well again, I am quite aware that I am slightly...unhinged when I am sick.  Husband, if he knew I was blogging about it, would probably say that I am unlivable and unsufferable when I am sick.  And I totally, totally am.  I go from a productive woman with books to read and games to play and blogs to write to a lump of misery that can only moan in a grating, glass grinding monotone about how horrible I feel. 

I really do feel bad about how I act when I'm sick, but it comes from having a husband who takes such good care of me when I'm on the brink of death.  Especially when he does things like he did this time, mostly because I suspect he blamed himself for bringing The Plague home with him from work.  He went and got me kleenex (with Kung Fu Panda on the box even) and orange juice.  He made me chicken noodle soup and brought it to me while I was oozing yellow stuff and touched me when the cat, smart creature that it is, wouldn't come within arm's distance of me.  I'm pretty sure she knew something I didn't.

This forest is representative of how many Kleenex I use when sick.  The EPA is why I had to move to Canada.

For some reason I imagine that she thinks that I was undergoing some kind of horrific, The Fly style transformation.  That one night my pink kitty pajamas would split open like a second skin and some freakish creature would emerge to eat her and Husband before leaving on two pairs of wings to mate with men and eat their heads indiscriminately until I was stopped by a sexy scientist and her cop boyfriend who would then celebrate by having sexy movie sex.

Yeah, I'd have been okay with this if it meant my nose wasn't runny any more.

Either way, I think I would have just been happy to not have been sick.  Dead, transformed into a bug monster, I was ready to accept any kind of Kafka-esque future as long as I wasn't dripping things from my nose any more.  I'm pretty certain that Husband would have probably been okay with it too after days of fever-induced dreams and Nyquil naps that lasted ten hours in a row.