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.

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