Under-er The Weather

It’s officially day three of being sick and I can sum it all up with a few random thoughts.

My fever broke only twice today. The first time I snuck in a shower. And refusing to cave to my illness, I got dressed in my fat jeans, a bra and a light pink v-neck t-shirt. I was somehow convinced that wearing pajamas would merely be an invitation for the bug to settle in for more time. Yeah, I was wrong.

The only thing I’ve eaten is a lone serving of Skinny Minty low-fat ice-cream. When I scooped it, I pushed a little too hard and the glob of frozen chemicals landed on my boob. A chocolate stain marks the place of impact. I look like I did when I was five, standing in front of the Friendly’s take out window in Old Saybrook failing to lick every drip of melting ice cream.

Since my food intake has been so minimal, my fat jeans are officially too big. They’ve fallen down to my knees every time I’ve gotten up. This has come in quite handy when I’ve headed to my bathroom to pee. I’m starting to understand why some people prefer elastic waistband pants.

For the most part, my fever has been somewhere between 101 and 102. This probably explains that dream I had about being chased around my apartment by marshmallow bunny Peeps.

I have sweat through my t-shirt and bra twice but I’m too lazy to bother changing. The end result is I smell. My cleavage even smells. I feel so unsexy.

I spent an entire hour this evening mustering the strength to fetch another bottle of water from the kitchen. Which is all of fifteen feet from my sofa. An hour. I’m thinking of unlocking my apartment door just in case I need to call an ambulance. Seriously, aren’t fevers supposed to go down, not up when you start taking Motrin?

My body aches from the aggressive trembling that rocks me from the inside out. So much so that I cried. Three times. It hurts. Like the kind of hurt that makes me wonder how the fuck I’d ever survive childbirth.

The only television I watched from start to finish was a mini-marathon of Work Out. Maybe it’s because I have a fever. Maybe it’s because I went to Smith. All I know is I totally have a crush on Jackie Warner. Huhmanna huhmanna huhmanna.

My coworker and my friend Hope both rang to offer to fetch me food or soup or anything that would make me feel better. I’m still craving apple juice but I didn’t think it was important enough to bother them. Plus, I’d never want to get them sick. So I’d make them leave it out in front of my apartment with the door closed. It sounds too drug dealerish. I’ll make do with water and orange juice.

My dad offered to fetch me some stuff too and it totally made my heart ache. Because here’s a man who can’t really carry a glass of ice from the kitchen to the breakfast room but he’s genuinely offering to stop at Sam’s Grill and have them bring the food out and then he’ll have my doorman bring it up. I love my dad for all that he is and all that he refuses to admit he isn’t. Even still, it made me really sad.

I’m sweating again. My brow line is damp and little beads of sweat are collecting on my chest. I can’t remember if sweating or shivering is the positive indicator of recovery so I refuse to get excited about either sensation. I just want them both to stop already.

I think I should eat something. Maybe an egg. I still have no appetite. The mere thought of chewing makes me tired. Maybe I’ll microwave one of those egg breakfast sandwiches. They’re bland enough to pair properly with the wretched sick taste in my mouth.

I’m hopeful I’ll have a horrible night’s rest but awake tomorrow sans fever. That’s all I’m asking for. The swollen tonsils and achy body can stay. I just want this three day old fever to go away.

Okay, now I need a nap.