Like every third person I meet, I’m sick. Just a cold or other minor bug, but enough to mess with my schedule.
Probably like you, my life is planned down to the millisecond. There is always too much to do and too little time to get it done. Plus a special work project over these past few weeks has me working at warp speed — and while that moves along, there is even more stuff that’s not getting done. My to-do list is two miles long. I need to be at the top of my game, but alas, my body has other ideas.
All of this is Basil’s fault. He’s rarely ill (and credits beer consumption for that), but came down with his annual bout of illness last weekend. He has been coughing and hacking like mad ever since. I knew I should have kicked him out of bed and off to the couch, or gone there myself to escape the germs. Sigh.
Instead I am now coughing and hacking like mad — and my voice no longer works properly. When I went to work yesterday, my boss told me I sounded like a man (thank GOD I’d waxed, then!), and by the end of the day he was calling me “froggy.” By dinnertime, I was squeaky and screechy, albeit in a quiet sort of way.
I was able to queue the Jazzercise class I taught this morning, but even I couldn’t stand to hear myself bark “chasse,” “plie” and “turnout triplet.” Poor customers; they were good sports, though.
The day has taken more and more of my voice with it. All that’s left now is a whisper and squeak, and Basil and Catherine are enjoying it all WAAAAY too much.
Catherine asks me questions, then smirks when I answer them. Basil just laughs every time I open my mouth. They like that the family drill sergeant can’t give orders or ask a million questions.
They just left to take Catherine to a Sweet 16 party. She looked amazing as I kissed her goodbye.
I was supposed to be in the car — Basil and I were going to go out to dinner. But, just like when I was a kid and seemed to be sick all the time, I’m missing out.
When I was young, I caught just about everything that went around. Consequently, I spent a lot of time in bed sipping ginger ale or chicken broth, and eating toast and Jell-O. I never touch any of that stuff now — it’s indelibly linked to being sick.
And while it was nice for a little bit to escape my chores and have the television in my room for late-afternoon reruns of “Zoom,” “The Electric Company,” “Hogan’s Heroes” and “I Love Lucy,” the thrill didn’t last long. It seemed I was forever listening to people downstairs having fun.
These days I rarely miss the fun — or anything else. It takes a REALLY big bug to send me to bed. Like most people I know — I just keep truckin’.
Guess it’s a mom thing. I rarely remember my mother being so sick that she went to bed, and when she did, the whole house would be in an uproar. Dad would serve fried bologna sandwiches or some strange tuna fish casserole concoction for dinner, and we’d have to muddle through til Mom was up and at ’em again.
Now I’m here alone in my bathrobe and slippers, talking to you. It’s very quiet. I’m not even whispering to myself.
I think I’ll go see what reruns are showing on TV, and maybe self-medicate with a little ice cream.