I wish that I could say it was a writing sickness of some sort, but no, it’s just plain sickness. Second time in less than a month, which makes me quite unhappy indeed. My husband finds my pitiful forlorn-ness rather cute but I’m just not good being miserable.

Being sick also forces me to do something else that I’m not terribly good at. Taking naps.

Ever since I was a little kid taking naps was something I hated. I was always afraid I was going to miss something. I would pretend to nap when I heard my mother coming up the stairs to check on me and as soon as she would leave I’d pull my book out from under my pillow and start reading. There wasn’t enough time for books, in my opinion.

I still feel that way. Being sick means that I have a hard time staying awake. Even sitting here blogging a bit has me starting to feel weak and womply. I imagine I’ll start and finish this over a long period…a bit here and there because sitting here is tough. I just have so little energy and barely any focus.

For the entire weekend I’ve spent the majority of my time on the couch, feverish, wracked with coughing, with my husband so graciously bringing me juice and ginger ale. He makes me food I can’t taste and runs to the store to buy me kleenex when I run out. This luckiness in finding the nicest guy is a two edged sword. I’d rather be spending the day doing something fun with him, not relegated to the couch, half asleep while he cooks me chicken soup.

I try to read but sadly, reading requires a bit more brainpower and energy than TV does. I rarely watch TV except for a few specifically Tivo’d shows and when I’m sick. Reading puts me to sleep nearly right away but I can manage TV for a little longer. Possibly because it’s actionable and movable and can arrest my visual senses in a way that black words on a white page tend to blur together for me when I feel like this.

So I watch TV and bad free movies on Comcast, feeling miserable, but even worse, feeling guilty.

Yeah. Guilty for being sick. Guilty because I had to cancel the writing workshop that I was supposed to teach yesterday. Guilty because I sleep instead of reading (oh my I have a book pile so high right now that I’m dying to go through). Guilty because I watch TV instead of writing on my novel (although I did manage to write a freelance article this weekend…the editor will most likely cringe at my codeine cough syrup coated words but I did spit it out over the course of yesterday). And even though tomorrow isn’t here yet, I already feel guilty because I’m going to have to call in sick (actually call in to say I’m working from home) for the second time in less than a month (was out for a week with the flu just three weeks ago).
This is where my husband lovingly tells me that I’m crazy. I wasn’t even born Catholic! I shouldn’t feel guilty for not reading or writing or working. I should just be sick and do my best to sleep it off.

But oh, that pillow…it doesn’t really call my name. Heaven forbid if I miss something! Oh wait, some things, like the 98 minutes I spent today watching The Covenant are probably worth missing…