Or: I Was Going to Write about More Tragic Tales of Failed Romance, but then THIS Happened
It’s no secret – I’m sick this week. I got laid low by what I like to call “horrible death cold” somewhere around Saturday night, and now, by Wednesday, I like to think I’m all better.
But I’m not.
It’s a lie. It’s cold medicine.
I woke up this morning feeling spectacular.
I almost acted like a morning person. I showered and brushed my teeth and flitted around without even the help of coffee. Because I had AIR. Air was my new best friend. It gave me super powers. It made me feel like I was fueled on sunshine and happiness.*
*Which isn’t really helpful today, since the Queen City is preparing for a snowpocalypse today. There’s no sunshine to be had.
In my bliss, I completely forgot exactly how much cold medicine I’d layered on myself last night. Specifically, I forgot the sweet blessing of 12-hour Afrin.** Which I used last night, specifically because I was completely unable to breathe at all, and without breathing, there would be no sleep.
**Which is the divine gift to sick people.
I know this, because now that I am at work, officially far away from life-saving congestion-fighters and medicine of any kind, I cannot breathe at all and am once again convinced I am so sick I may die.
Not funny, medicine. Not funny at all.
Side note: The product placement in this post didn’t benefit me in any way at all. I’m just being honest about the medicine that conned me into thinking I was well just long enough for me to go to work.