At 23 I could go through a night of the flu, rolled up in a house coat on the floor of the bathroom, grateful for my foresight in cleaning the toilet on the weekend. By 5:30 p.m. after an afternoon catching up on soaps and Columbo, I’d be sitting up, taking nourishment. Then by 8:30 p.m., after a few phone calls I’d be going through the closet for something to wear to the club.
It’s Thursday, after all.
At 33, getting sick was not an option. Because the laundry piles up, the sink will be full of pans with curdled milk and/or soggy cheerios at the bottom and there’s stew caked on the inside of the kettle. Bales of popsicles laid in for flu season will have vaporized leaving behind sticks stuck to every piece of furniture in the living room and plastic wrappers hanging from the dog’s tail.
At 43 nursing a cold with a toddy and a nap sounds like a great idea but there are concerts, school fund raisers, end of year award ceremonies and there’s no spare time to entertain a virus.
Now I’m into my 50’s and who needs a flu virus to feel like crap? This is the beginning of that stage where I get sore from sitting too long and end up completely crippled for days from sleeping wrong.