It seems I've broken a lucky three-year streak and have gotten a cold.
Were I in any other field, this would be a non-event. I'd pop pack tissues and cough drops and carry on (observing all the prescribed rituals of hand-washing and not sneezing into people's faces, of course).
However, no one wants their food prepared or served by someone snorting, sniffing and hacking like Gollum. So Dirtman and the Divine Mrs. D will be running the cafe today (you might want to drop by to watch -- I predict it will go three rounds before Mrs. D KOs Dirtman to retain her title).
Here I am, feeling a little uncomfortable from a sore throat and clogged ears; slightly heady (because I take thyroid meds, I can't take the usual cold remedies) from sinus pressure; and, frankly, not horrible.
So what I feel the most is guilt. I feel just fine to watch old movies or read or knit. I'm having a good time, and I'm quite sure there is something wrong about that.
Meanwhile, the earth spins without me, a healthy antidote to my hubris.
While the earth is spinning, I'm left to daytime TV, which seeps in between movies like pond ooze. What a dismal swamp of insipid and inane products of human creativity -- or lack thereof (oh, come on...it's been so long since I wrote a TV rant.)
Ultimately, though, I track down an audio book on Project Gutenberg (Wodehouse. Love Wodehouse) and knit. And sneeze.
And then there is Zsa Zsa, who is delighted I'm home all day, but diligent about her role as my caretaker. She nudges me behind the knees as I putter around the kitchen making a cup of tea. She lies beside the bed and sits up at attention during sneezing fits.
She is quite sure I'm too much of a moron to be left to my own devices so, when I let her outside, she walks five feet from the house to relieve herself, all the time keeping her eye on me at the door. She doesn't run around the lawn and chase the cats as she usually does. Instead she's back inside, walking me to bed and back on the job. With Zsa Zsa there is no such thing as a mild cold; there is health or death's door and she doubts I'm capable of handling either.
So there it is: I've got my books, I've got my knitting, I've got my dog and, frankly, I've got my health.
Dirtman will be home soon with soup and sympathy. I'll enjoy the former. I honestly don't deserve the latter.