You know that heinous pre-cold feeling? Where your throat is so sore that it hurts to even think about swallowing; in an effort to quell the pain, you've sucked on so many atomic fireballs that you have a hole in your tongue; you're running a low-grade fever that can't stand up to a few Tylenol, and you're kinda achy in a nebulous way where you feel more leaden than anything?
I hate that feeling, if only because the only thing I can anticipate at this point is a Labor Day weekend spent hacking and wheezing.
Here's the thing: due to some sort of bizarro circumstances, this feeling makes me incredibly sweet and caring towards other people and
myself, and much more than in normal circumstances. I got home around 7:30 last night, and flopped down on the couch with a thermometer. When it flashed out the verdict, a 101.2 degree fever, I sentenced myself to a quiet, relaxing evening. I put on my softest and comfiest p.j.s, gulped down two glasses of Brita water (no DC tap shit for my ailing body!), washed my face with a gentleness I generally reserve for infants, gave my weary feet a massage with the expensive lotion I save for special occasions (read: never use, because it's trop cher to replace), flossed
(seriously, who flosses when they're sick?), and curled up on the couch with the cat, both of us done for the night. It's almost as if Iwas trying to prove to the world that I'm not actually sick, and I will dote on every last inch of humanity if I have to.
The Object hasn't figured this out yet, and I'm hoping he never will, because the consequences could be devastating for me. When the Object got home from his workout last night, he looked exhausted and upset, having decided his i.d. and debit card were hopelessly lost from his weekend adventures. Despite having promised myself that I was done for the evening, I got up from my cocoon and made him a nice pasta dinner with homemade pesto, cracked him a beer, and let him yell at the tennis players on ESPN.This would never happen in real life
It's not the pasta or the beer- cooking and drinking are mainstays of our relationship. But the tennis business worries me. I hate ESPN with a passion most people reserve for Satan, taxes, and Ashton Kutcher. I hate that you can't actually see a game since the screen is plastered with ten thousand different icons. When their commentary isn't onanistic, it's fawning over megastars they've created
, and regarding the part where they cut away from the game at key moments to interview their own commentators, all I can do is cry, "Mais pourquoi, pourquoi?!"
I have no idea how this appeals to anyone with an attention span larger than a newt. And believe me, mine's not much bigger.
But more than that, I hate what ESPN reduces the Object to. Other than soccer, he's generally apathetic towards the sports world, but every so often, he decides he's going to park in front of ESPN and screech at the t.v., which, let me remind you, is inanimate. I'll be engaged in some quiet late-evening activity like reading or writing, when suddenly bursts through the calm, "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!!?!? YOU HAVE TO GET ON THAT SHIT YOU LAZY ASSHOLES!!!! WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF SHIT IS THIS??!?!?!?"
I can understand one doing this during the sports that are interesting; I've been known to dance across the couches shrieking "GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL!" But that's when I have a legitimate investment in the team. When I questioned the Object about why he was so exercised about the tennis match, his reply was, "That one guy needs to beat, um, that other guy." And here's where the problem with my being kinda sick comes in: instead of adding such a statement to the fodder pile of Things to Mock the Object About, I gave him a hug and went to bed, saying, "OK, I hope your guy wins."
BWAURGH! I disgust myself!
It got even worse this morning. We recently had a mutual (no, seriously) agreement to institute a household rule that clothes can only be strewn across one surface at a given time. A person can pick the papasan, the reading chair, or in my case, the laundry basket
, but only one item of furniture per person can have a heaping wad of laundry on it. The Object was in clear violation of the rule this morning. My normal m.o. would be to dump the clothes on his face while he's still sleeping and then giggle with mirth (he would do the same thing, don't feel bad for him for one second. It's hilarious if you're not the person getting laundry in your face, and if you're getting laundry in your face, you remember that soon enough, you won't be the victim). But because of my bizarro sick-induced sweetness, I waited until he was well awake to politely ask him to move his clothes from the chairs at some point when he got around to thinking about maybe getting a chance. When he looked put out, I backed right off, saying "Don't worry about it, I can fold it for you." He then proceeded to blame the messy house on me.
I normally would have pointed out that the messiness on my part was only in two areas. There was the bag of clothes that will go to Goodwill once my friend has a chance to come over and forage through, but hasn't had that chance to since her caterer cancelled 5 weeks before her wedding and she's now taking Xanax just to get through the day and may not actually have my Goodwill pile first and foremost on her brain. Then there was the breadmaker I have tried to give away a dozen times, only to have the Object rescue it and promise that he is going to sell it on Craigslist and make us millionaires.
But in my weakened condition, I just said, "I guess you have a point."
I need to get over this, and with due haste. Once the Object figures it out, there's no telling how he could take advantage of me. Endless dinners of stinky olives and soggy mushrooms with beets, topped off with grappa? Hours spent watching the legislative process on CSPAN? Oh, the humanity!
I suppose it will all be ok in the end. Soon enough I'll be sick for real, and with the sore throat I have, it's fair to assume that sometime within the next few days, I'll be able to breathe fire. He'll be soooo sorry he left his stankyass socks all over the place when they're burninated
. Or maybe he'll just accept it, since by that time, there's a good chance he'll be reduced to the same pathetic state I currently find myself. I can't wait.