Random observations – sans photos (’cause you really don’t want any visuals) – of
two three bedridden days:
the telephone only rings when it’s out of reach
knitting needles can be too heavy to lift
five hundred and four cable television stations, and there is nothing to watch during the day (Shouldn’t there be a “Sick Day” station that only plays old Hitchcock movies? Imagine the ad revenues from the drug companies and lawyers.)
Back issues of The New Yorker can fill hours of near delirium, providing fodder for fever dreams of liquid absinthe and talking dogs wearing trench coats
If you find yourself mesmerized by the clicking sound of your turn signal at a stop light, you probably should not be driving, even if it is a trip to the doctor’s office
Taking a shower AND brushing one’s teeth counts as aerobic activity
Through it all, every cough and sneeze and pathetic whine, Greatest Husband has been my personal Clara Barton. Uncomplaining, untiring, greatest fixer of soup and crackers, refiller of ice-water, plumper of pillows, provider of news from the outside world, indulging my every whim (from orange sherbet to reruns of nature shows on t.v.) displaying a selflessness and devotion far beyond the call of spousal duty.
I am so friggin’ lucky.