Would a Little Vomit Be So Bad
Posted by Rice
Sunday morning I woke up on the wrong side of the bed. This isn’t a terribly unusual occurrence, it usually takes me about two hours to fully wake up and become my pleasant and jolly self.
I usually wake up around 5am, which gives the entire world time to leave me the fuck alone. By the time it wakes up, I’m the huggable, muscled ab, super model that it loves to cuddle up against. But on Sunday, I’d slept late. The boyfriend and dog were both up and I immediately knew any interaction would devolve quickly.
Recreation of Imagined Interaction
BF: Good morning, lover!
Me: Why do you call me lover? It sounds like we’re in a wretched 18th century Russian novel.
BF: I don’t think 18th century Russian novelists were allowed to use the word ‘lover.’
Me: (stomping foot and screaming like a lunatic) I’m going to the bar, where people respect what I have to say! (Storms out)
That interaction has never actually happened, because bars in Chicago are not open at 8am on Sunday mornings.
So instead of instigating a fight because I was trying to deal with the clouds of reality, I figured I’d be productive and head to the grocery store. We were out of eggs and since it’s pretty much all I eat in the morning, I figured a lack of eggs would mean multiple meltdowns in the week to come.
So I grabbed our little granny grocery cart and headed over to the Jewel.
Two things on that last statement before I continue:
1) No, I do not shop at Whole Foods, unless it’s the only place available. I know it’s better for the planet, but I am terrified that at the age of 80 I’ll run out of money and have to live on the streets. So, I save money by shopping at the less expensive Jewel, so I can put away the extra cash for my future, non-sidewalk sleeping self.
2) Yes, we have a granny grocery cart. The lovely thing about living in Chicago is that everything is within walking distance – no car needed. And like most things the Boyfriend tries to introduce, I fought the granny cart, because it was a symbol that we were falling into the snowbank of uncoolness. But I learned that I was completely wrong, the granny grocer is awesome, and I always make sure to use it before anyone remotely cool would even be awake on Sunday mornings. That’s a Win-Win.
Okay, where were we… cranky, Jewel, granny grocer… ah, yes.
So the Boyfriend, reading my non-verbal cues, did not offer to go with me to the grocery store. He usually does, he loves having an outing like that, but when I’m in a lousy mood, grocery shopping calms me; unless of course there is someone (aka The Boyfriend) there pulling everything off the shelves to point out the ingredients, shelf life, and nutritional information; then I usually start crying that we’re now on hour 37 of my twenty minute shopping trip.
There’s a schedule for everything, and if you’re not going to abide by it, don’t roadblock those of us that are abiding it. That’s all I’m saying.
The store was practically empty, which is just the way I like it. I don’t have to deal with slow walkers, carting under the influencers, or children crawling on the floor begging for Honey Grahams. (I love you kids, just not in my path at the grocery store.)
Oranges – check.
Oatmeal – check.
Asian Noodles – Check.
Soup – Son-of-a-bitch…
It was just as I was looking at the soups that I felt the storm of the flu hit. I went from annoyed, but energetic grocery getter to wobbly jello strength, leaning on the cart for support. I was just lucky that it wasn’t a spew flu.
So, in a first-world Herculean feat of strength, I finished the shopping and headed home. I even managed to get orange juice and jalapeno cheese sticks.
I spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon laying in bed. As I mentioned, I didn’t have the spew flu. I also didn’t have the blob-just-hatched-in-my nasal-cavity flu. I was merely feverish, achy, and so tired I kept falling asleep in 15 minute increments.
Well, without stomach juice or nose gelatin, no one believes that you’re sick – especially the Boyfriend. So mid-afternoon, he came bouncing into the bedroom announcing that it was now time to decorate the tree.
Perhaps you’ve never noticed how much bending and stretching is involved in decorating a tree. After Sunday, I’m pretty certain tree decorating started during the Spanish Inquisition as a way to wear down the most egregious blasphemers. After an hour of tinseling, even Julian Assange would be handing over his mother’s maiden name.
I got about 20 ornaments on the tree before I had to collapse on the couch. And I sat there, watching the Boyfriend continue decorating, while the dog curled up on my lap. At first I could tell the Boyfriend was annoyed – here I was, just being a holiday curmudgeon once again. But after a few minutes, he softened, stopped and watched me briefly.
“You’re actually sick, aren’t you?” he said.
Okay, I may be a bit of a hypochondriac, but I never wuss out of things because of my diseases. In fact, the assurance that I’m probably dying of the bubonic plague (a scab under my arm), leprosy (psoriasis on the elbows), or heart palpitations (allergies made it difficult to breathe) makes me live life even more fully than normal. I mean, when the end is near, you might as well get out and enjoy the final chapter.
Well, once my decrepitude was established, tree trimming was put aside and the afternoon was spent, curled on the couch, catching up on Season 1 of American Horror Story, which isn’t a bad way to spend a achy sick day.