Oy. I got damp toilet paper schmattes all around me (no tissues in the house, far too extravagant, regular tissues AND liquid soap, one had to go). I can’t raise my head off my pillow for very long. I tried to stand in the hallway to look at what Sophie had done with her dollhouse and I fell over and bashed my head against her doorframe and nearly peed myself. Sorry, relatives who think I talk too much about pee and poo. The fact is, there is so much of it in my life, I really can’t help talking about it.
We’ve all had this flu-ey thing in its different incarnations, but mine involves the damp, revolting schmattes everywhere and freezing and shivering and aching and wishing I looked like some nice glowy commercial model, maybe the cute Yoplait girls, or the Dove ladies. I go in and out of these odd dreamlike states where the Yoplait girls are dressed as Florence Nightingale and murmuring over my feverish head, “No hope, no hope for this one, snag me another vanilla, would you?”
I feel like Hagrid with the bubonic plague. I look about that lovely. But big fat Eli loves me still, and I am using him right now as my hot water bottle because I am too broken-down to refill it again.
How do I fix this beat-to-hell immune system of mine, friends? It’s been going down the tubes for some time now, and I’d love to reclaim some zing.
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