Being sick is no fun at all if you're doing it alone. I'm in bed as I write this, home with the flu. At least I think it's the flu. Then again, maybe I'm Patient Zero, harbinger of a new pandemic that will sweep the planet in a matter of days, killing 99 percent of the population and leaving the world a savage wasteland in which my dog and I will drive around in a souped-up, former cop car looking for open Wesco stations offering fresh donuts.
Nah, I couldn't be that lucky. It's probably just the flu, or something like it. Whatever it is, it kept me up all night and it's keeping me down today.
I wouldn't mind, really, except for the fact I'm living alone. That means there's no woman here to baby me, which is the only reason for ever being sick.
Sweet Annie's a real Florence Nightingale whenever I'm ill, but she's an hour's drive away and has things to do today that don't involve homemade chicken soup or cool washcloths placed gently across my feverish brow.
If I had a dog, he could sit near the foot of my bed and gaze at me with concern in his canine eyes, the way dogs sometimes do. But I don't have a dog, much less one that's worried I'm sick.
A cat, which I also don't have, wouldn't care one way or the other about my health unless I got so sick I forgot to feed her. If that happened, the cat would start counting the days until I died, after which she would have plenty to eat. Cats have a strong survival instinct and no discernible conscience.
Upon my friend Kelly's advice, I bought a couple hermit crabs the other day. I don't believe they're concerned for my well-being, though it's hard to say for sure. The moment I put them in their elaborate and fairly expensive terrarium home, they buried themselves in the cedar bark substrate and haven't been seen since.
Kelly assures me they will eventually emerge, but I'm beginning to have my doubts. I should check the bottom of the cage to see if they've somehow managed to tunnel their way to freedom.
But I digress. It's easy to do when you're running a fever so high you keep forgetting what it is, exactly, that you're writing about. I'm pretty sure it had something to do with being sick, at least at the beginning there. Let me check.
Yup. Being sick it is; that and the fact there's no woman here to baby me through this bout with the cooties.
If there were, I'd be having the time of my life. Being sick with a good woman in the house is one of life's great experiences. Chicken soup, or "broth," if you really, really ill. Toast and tea. Bland food you would never, ever eat under normal circumstances, but which for some reason tastes great when your belly's not up to the rigors of burritos or pizza.
A woman will bring you these things if you are sick. You don't even have to get out of bed. Frankly, I've known men (me) who have faked illness on a Sunday afternoon just to get the free room service. I probably shouldn't admit to that, since I may want to do it again someday, but this stupid fever is diminishing my naturally occurring masculine deception skills.
Maybe it's a good thing there's no woman here to ask me incriminating questions. Fabricating answers seems like too much trouble at the moment, and I firmly believe the truth should only be used as a last resort when all else fails.
So I guess I'll just lay here alone for the rest of the day, whimpering like a newborn with a misplaced pacifier, wishing I had someone to bring me tea and toast, Kleenex and the occasional hit of NyQuil. I'm sure I'll feel better tomorrow. Unless Annie drops by with some homemade chicken soup, a cool washcloth and soothing words of comfort. If she does, it may take a couple extra days to fully, ahem, recover.
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