Apparently, spending nearly all of last weekend in my pajamas was a premonition.
On Monday morning, I became a productive member of society, who is a joy to be around and who no longer needed to be criticized as being a lazy, good-for-all-the-nothing. I showered and curled my hair. I sent my children to school and made a couple of beds. I did a couple loads of laundry, and made a grocery list that was heavy on fruits and vegetables and salmon because #januarygoals. And all morning long, I kept telling myself, “Hmm. I am catching a chest cold.” This was all good and wonderful, because FOR THE RIGHTEOUS LOVE! I’ve already had a solid three colds already this winter, and WHEN DOES THE HEALTHY PEACE SETTLE IN? Isn’t it time to let my field lay fallow for a year of rest? I picked Thing 2 up from school, and we went into Walmart, where we really did buy all the fruits and vegetables, even though my five-year-old suggested candy and Legos and bubblegum. I stayed strong.
By the time I had hauled in all my grocery sacks, I realized that I was chilled straight to my bones, which was to be expected because it was below zero on Monday. Welcome, Winter. Welcome, with your freezing temperatures and your dadgum illnesses. I put my groceries away, made hot tea, and sat in front of our fireplace, because I still chalk a gas fireplace up as the biggest marriage win of my entire married life. Hubs wanted a real fireplace, with real logs. I begged him for a gas fireplace, with fake logs and a remote control. He held strong. I pleaded. He finally conceded, because he was building a garage that was three times the normal garage size. Neither one of us has ever regretted the fact that we can walk inside our house, push a button, and have a roaring fire in one second. There’s no need to go all Charles Ingalls and make one from a felled tree, that takes a sweet forever.
By 5:00 on Monday, I was asking Alexa what the symptoms of influenza were. In her computerized voice, she let me know that all of the flu symptoms were the same symptoms I had. Especially since I’d just clocked myself as the possessor of a genuine 101.8 degree fever.
By 5:15, I was at the walk-in clinic. I have no medical background beyond Grey’s Anatomy and ER, but I was fairly certain that the interns of Seattle Grace Hospital would have wanted me to start Tamiflu quickly, if I was an influenza victim.
Which, as it turns out, I was.
Which is why all of our grocery budget for the rest of January went to my local pharmacy, to secure flu-fighters. Which is why expensive salmon is now being traded for the dollar menu at McDonald’s, because #brokejanuary.
I have basically been in pajamas every since Monday night. I have sat in the big chair in the living room, under a blanket, with a straw in a can of 7-Up and a cat on my lap all week. If not for the feel-bad DIAGNOSIS, that had me alternating between freezing to the point of hypothermia, and sweating like a pink pig at an August fair, when the Tylenol kicked my fever aside for four hours, I’d call THAT #januarygoals.