I left work early yesterday because I was feeling a bit out of sorts. Run down, couldn’t concentrate, generally just blegh.
By midnight I was sitting on my bathroom floor for the second time, staring into the dark abyss of the toilet’s u-bend and wondering if I had some form of food poisoning or the flu. (Thank Gawd I’d cleaned the bathroom Sunday afternoon!) By the third trip to pay my respects to the porcelain god I just didn’t care anymore. I felt like I was being turned inside out and I wanted it to end.
Then my face caught fire while the rest of me shivered like a hairless cat in the snow. Then every inch of my skin began to crawl with aches and pains.
Great. Flu it is then.
I crawled into bed with the heat cranked as high as it would go, and cocooned into four blankets where I stayed until about two this afternoon. I was at work by three, on my way home again by four-thirty. I guess there was something about the waitress standing off in the corner looking all green and shaky that might put people off eating in our establishment, so they sent me home. Or it could have been that when someone tried to hug me my body ached so bad I actually started to cry. I’m such a baby when I’m sick. Sequestering myself at home is more for the benefit of no one needing to hear me whine than it is about being contagious.
So here I sit, wrapped in my favorite furry blanket waiting for a delivery of Won-Ton soup and fried rice in the hopes that it will fare better inside of me than that ill-fated grilled cheese from earlier.
My kingdom for another bottle of flat ginger ale…
(I finally start blogging again and I dedicate an entire post to being sick… Such is Emma.)