23 July 2013

Sicker than the very sickest thing you've EVER heard of. Or something

I just finished a week off.  It was supposed to be a holiday but turned into 'the week I have enjoyed the least in my parenting career'.  Or you might choose 'completely horrid', 'unenjoyable' or 'totally f#*ked'.

And I was going to try and blog about it but I think its best just to sum it up by sharing a text I sent to my husband at work last Thursday afternoon:
"If you by word or insinuation ever refer to this week as a holiday we are getting a divorce."
And I meant it.  It was a completely awful week.

Then there came a weekend where I got a haircut and had my eyebrows cut back to the undergrowth allowing my eyes to emerge from where they were hiding and I was looking forward to a return to the world of adults.  Or work - which is about as close as anyone can wish for.

I should have seen looking forward to going back to work as a sign that something was wrong.

Sunday night - after a weekend of sneezing, I was whacked with the mother of all viral infections - glands up, sore throat, ears blocked, chesty cough, aches, pains, runny nose, head ache and a case of woe is me so dreadful I almost couldn't sum up the energy to be pissed off at Rudd's PNG 'solution'.

And I went to the doctor.  And she said "You are sick - here's a sick certificate, go home and avoid pregnant people and old people until the end of the week." And so I did.  Mainly because my office is currently full of people doing 'Dry July' and other such pregnancy euphemisms or sporting stomachs protruding in fecund glory and I work in the aged care industry.  Which means that it would be morally reprehensible to take my manky snotty self into the world of adults.  And is there anything worse than sick people coming to work to demonstrate their commitment?  No.  Nothing.  Except Rudd's stupid solution.

So I've slept. And taken my medicine.  Mainlined Vitamin C tablets.  Told my mother I can't see her because she's old even though she's in town for a few days.  And moped. And today I followed the twitter streams about the royal baby from under my duvet. Doctor's orders.

Now that I no longer feel that death is imminent, I can sense that I might well recover.  I still blame this new exercise malarky.  Basically I believe my body has gone into profound shock and reacted by trying to kill me.

But I might even stop whinging at my husband about how this is worse than man flu.  But not today.  I have a sick certificate giving me official permission to whinge at him for at least another 36 hours.  It'd be rude not to take full advantage.

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