I don’t know if anyone else feels this way, but I’m often awash with a wave of terror every time I get sick. It’s the possibility that I might actually drop dead one day, and no one would notice until my landlord realises rent hasn’t been paid in over a month.
It’s not that I get all moody and paralysed with terror every time I have so much as a small cold; these thoughts usually come about when it’s something more serious. A stomach flu that lasts a week. A 29°C fever that just won’t break. An intensely sharp pain in the chest that leaves you lying awake for fear you won’t wake up.
If I’d known aging on your own would be this terrifying, I’d have tried harder to date in high school.
In some stroke of luck last night, I’d managed to finish work earlier than usual. This allowed me the rare chance to come home to fix myself a guac-and-veggie-stick platter while catching up on the huge stack of magazines that I receive monthly compliments of my workplace. Sometime in the hours spent in vegetation, I must’ve pulled something, because by the time I crawled into bed with some nice hot ocha, half a can of pringles, and James Comey’s tantalising senate hearing to keep me company, I was whining in pain.
I sincerely doubt anyone reading this will have heard my whining before, but let me just tell you that it is utterly cringe. It’s not that I mean to be whingy, it just happens when muscles in my lower back are sharply pulled when I so much as breathe. And just to be clear, at the same time, I was also trying not to laugh-cry at the immense hilarity of Senator McCain’s evident state of delirium as he took the floor.
Of course, Comey would later wipe said floor with McCain, but American politics is a discussion for another time. Covfefe that.
I woke up in some crazy kind of pain, with the startling realisation that I couldn’t sit up. I lay there, like some kind of dead fish for a couple of hours until it became too clear that I wouldn’t be able to get to work, much less actually work.
Here’s the best part – pre-marinated chicken saves lives. I’d actually put a couple chicken thighs in the fridge in a marinade of sage, lemon juice, and mustard the night before. This, I suppose, was partly me trying to get back into the groove of cooking, but boy was it well-timed. All I had to do today was roll out of bed, turn on the oven, and shove the tray in, lemon husks and all. Mind you, the rolling out of bed bit did take a few tries, and I’m pretty sure my neighbours now think I’m a slightly off-kilter sex deviant.
But hey, at least I got to eat a really good meal even while half-incapacitated with pain, right?