Being sick sucks. Snot bubbles breakdance out of your nostrils. Your muscles ache like you’ve been body-slammed a few dozen times. Coughing spasms rip through your chest like the alien creature from Spaceballs.
Me no likey.
However, there are some upsides to being sick out of your brains and high on Nyquil. You don’t care what you look like or what you do.
When you wear your frog pajamas with the weird footies to your corporate meeting and proceed to shuffle around the room, making yourself a conduit for high volts of electricity, and you touch every suit with your knobby ET fingers thereby shocking the shit out of your co-workers, you don’t care.
You can tell someone that their leopard print pants are most definitely not a good idea. Never. Ever. Again.
Doing absolutely nothing is perfectly acceptable.
You can drink three pots of coffee and still pass out.
You laugh at your teenage boy’s farts and comments because they are really, really funny. Like, how did you not realize this before today?
a;klgfhprlghjkbniuytyhijeoonh;ulkjoaewihgj;l. Sorry. Wiping off my keyboard. My slobbering rivals that of a Dogue de Bordeaux.
“You are my soul mate,” you proclaim. “That’s ridiculous,” he responds. Rejected again. You shrug your shoulders and take another swig of cherry syrup.
You can’t taste sweet morsels of food and you can’t swallow due to the razor blades that line your throat, so you stop eating. You drop five pounds without so much as lifting a finger.
Thomas the Tank Engine plays for hours straight. You feed your kids microwave meals and pizza and pudding. No one frowns upon your parenting decisions.
I could go on, but I have to decorate for my girl’s birthday party. Good God. This is going to be an interesting day.