My Days as a Rotten Potato

I am the one in the center.

I have not looked in a mirror for three days. I have not had to. 

 

Since the flu de tum tum (doesn't that sound better than stomach flu?) hit, I have been able to gauge my appearance by the horrified expression on the face of my husband. Today, he will not make eye contact with me and keeps turning his back when I enter the room. This means I have entered the "rotten potato" stage of the illness.

 

This alternately makes me want to laugh or shout apropos segments of our wedding vows at him but he has, actually, been very kind to me. He changed the litter boxes yesterday which is as good a reason as any to get so sick that all you can do is lie curled in a ball on a couch with a hot water bottle.

 

The cats know I'm sick. Perhaps my constant moaning has given it away. But Buzzy has not attempted to get into my lap since Wednesday when I said to him very quietly as he approached with the words "Mommy's Lap" in his eyes like an old fashioned slot machine, "Not now, Buzzy, I'm sick."

 

He understood that. It wasn't said threateningly (God forbid) or with a raised voice (as if I would ever raise my voice to Buzz Buzz) but he veered away and sat next to me as my stomach roiled and pitched.

 

When I get sick, I become completely convinced that I will never, ever recover.

 

Where this extreme melodrama originated is unknown because I come from a family of stoic and brave patients. I blame it all on an atavistic gene, from a hypochondriacal caveman, propelled forward through history where it lodged itself into my immediate gene pool. 

Heading home to lie down.

 

This poor bastard must have soaked his fur panties with tears when he didn't feel well. He must have requested his mastadon burgers be put through the blender once too often and his wife finally bashed him with something awful's femur. It's a horrible scene which I must immediately stop imagining because the idea of a mastadon burger has, in my current condition, caused me to retch politely into my sleeve.

 

So, between requests for ginger ale or a fresh box of tissues, I ask Seth repeatedly whether he thinks I'll ever feel better again. And by repeatedly, I mean a whole helluva lot. For the first day or so, his reassurances are patient and tender but soon morph into clipped responses and growls. 

 

Just before the tide turns and I am, actually, feeling better, he's shaking up the cans of ginger ale before he hands them to me and scowling menacingly if I say anything.

 

We are at that point today. So, I better start feeling better soon.

 

I wish you all a happy and healthy weekend. Thanks for putting up with my nonsense and don't forget to check back on Monday to see whether Seth may have finally snapped. Whatever happens, it was still worth not having to do the litterboxes.

I am a genius.