Being Sick

I have a migraine.  My allergies have decided to announce their presence with authority.  I've taken all the OTC medications allowed for the day and I still feel miserable.  I'm achy.  I'm slow.  I'm sweaty. I'm a little bit anxious and a little bit nauseous. My throat is trying to be sore, though I am reminding it that it's only raspy because of the allergens and not because of a virus coursing through my system.  I had to come out of downward dog this morning and press my forehead into the mat in child's pose; the world had been spinning mightily before I got down to the ground.  In general, it's been a crappy day.

I've been trying to keep a positive outlook in my glove compartment.  I took it out while stuck in construction traffic when I wanted to be prone on my comfy mattress at home.  I let it wash over my aches and pains and decided to smile at the car wash kid instead of screeching that my head hurt and I didn't want to hear about any other options.... I wanted the $2.99 exterior wash and I wanted to be left alone.  I'm not sure how successful I was, but my car did emerge from the machinery unscathed so I must have concealed my fury well enough to keep him from trashing my vehicle.  I have a hard time caring about the feelings of others when I'm under the weather.  It seems only right that the entire world should be aware of my discomfort and should comport itself accordingly.

I don't want to be disturbed when I don't feel well.  TBG likes company, some one who will rub his head and fetch him popsicles.  I want to be left alone.  I don't want anyone else in the house.  I don't want to feel the pressure of looking sickly if I'm having a better moment or two; the guilt associated with remaining in bed while the sun is out is only exacerbated if there's someone around.  I don't want anyone listening to my moaning and groaning.  I'm going to wallow and I want to do it in peace.  I don't want to be judged.

I'm usually furious with myself when I don't feel well.  I tell the Cuters that they are lucky that TBG's American roots stretching back to 1633 are enriched by my hearty peasant stock.  I'm rarely ill; without much experience I'm not sure I do it very well.  

G'ma doesn't remember a thing about her falls and the 6 months of recovery which followed.  She's missing the memories of laying a-bed, moaning and wondering why there was pain and dizziness and mental fatigue.  I have only one memory of her being ill in my childhood - Daddooooo took us out to dinner so she could sleep and I cried when our regular waitress asked where Mom was hiding.  Now, when she's achy or sniffling or just not at her best, she smiles and refuses Aspirin or Sudafed; she'll be fine.  I missed that piece of genetic coding; at the first sign of an ache or a pain I'm in the medicine cabinet, looking for the magic potion to make the feeling go away.

But when it sticks around, when it hangs onto my every breath, when moving my eyeballs brings sharp stabbing pain to the back of my head despite Excedrine Migraine and all its many wonderful components racing through my bloodstream, well then I'm just peeved.  It's such a waste of a beautiful day.  There is an irrigation issue to be remedied before I can install the last marigold and I'm just not up to dealing with it.  I'm having house guests early next week and there's a bedroom to be readied and I just can't muster the energy.  I have a date with Mr. 5 tomorrow at 11:30 and I'm panic stricken that I won't be any fun at all.  

So, denizens, I am off to cover my eyes with a cold compress and to wallow in self-pity.  

I am certain that I will awaken tomorrow morning having shaken the bonds of bodily torment and ready to greet the new day with a smile and an abundance of energy.  But, for now, I'm going to whine as I take myself to bed.