I’m sick again because my immune system checked my calendar and noticed this would be a really bad week for me to be less than functional. My white blood cells schedule all their fights for the days I have a lot to do. It’s a fun game we like to play.
I’m not good at getting sick. In an ideal world, I would get unearthly pale and sit in my bed embroidering something while people fretted around me. I’d bravely said things like, “Don’t worry about me. I’ll pull through.” with a weak, tragic smile. If it was bad enough, I’d die with a tiny sigh and a promising poetry career cut tragically short. Also, for some reason I’d be blonde.