This weekend, I got sick.
Not the adorable “scratchy voice, stuffy nose” kind of sick that gets you all the sympathy, but none of the grief, but the “down and dirty, nostrils fully obstructed, coughing up green stuff on the sleeve of your already snot stained sweatshirt” kind of sick.
Enough of a visual for you?
Now, I know being sick is always a drag and before you even think it – yes, I know it could’ve been much worse. Having the self-diagnosed flu is certainly not the end of the world, but at 8:17am last Thursday morning it felt like it was. My whole body was throbbing, every time I coughed, it felt like my lungs were being ripped from my chest cavity by that heart-ripping-out guy from Indian Jones and Oliver was already on his second watching of Cars for the day.
There was no way I was going to make it out alive.
Luckily, “Him” came to my rescue and sent me off to bed, where I spent the next 18 hours drifting in and out of a semi-coma, with a few dozen Halls vitamin C drops slowly dissolving inside my cheek and softly moaning “I’m siiiiiiiiiiick” to anyone who would listen. After a few hours, my constant complaining, and most likely high fever, got me to thinking (and this is the part where I picture myself as Carrie Bradshaw, sitting at a iMac circa 2005. Except, in my imagination, I look slightly less like a crescent moon-faced man-hater.)
“Why, as adults, are we such snively, little whiners?”
When I was a kid, I could have the stomach flu with stuff coming out both ends and I wouldn’t dare breathe a word of that nonsense to my friends. They’d all been sick before in their lives. Why on earth would they want a play-by-play of my most recent porcelain conquests? None of these stories were of any consequence to their lives, so why share? Oh, other than that one time when I was so sick over Christmas break that Santa Claus brought me new underwear in my stocking. How did he know!?
So as kids, we keep our lips zipped about our constant cases of Strep throat, diarrhea, impetigo and everything else under the sun, but then we grow up. And we get internet access. And for some reason, we think that suddenly everyone on the planet wants to know every insignificant detail of our current medical condition.
Hey guys. Guess what? They don’t.
No matter how interesting you think it is that you’ve gone through four bottles of Sudafed and 16 different types of essential oils in your humidifier, I promise you, I think it is that exact same amount of not interesting. It’s not that I don’t care! I think it’s terrible that you’re sick and I wish you a very speedy recovery – just don’t put it on blast all over my Facebook/Twitter/Instagram/Google+/SnapChat/Vine.
It’s kind of depressing and I’ve been really sick lately.