After a week in bed, you’d think I’d have accomplished so much more. Perhaps finished off that copy of The Good Soldier Švejk that my colleague lent to me months ago. Or sorted through that remaining box of quickly packed things from the “we’re clearing the bedroom” day.
Nope.
Having the flu has been my Get Out of Life’s Obligations card. Haven’t brushed my teeth. Didn’t bathe. (Ok, ok, even I had to break down after a couple of days of that.) I’ve been wearing one of two fuzzy-warm pairs of socks since I got slammed on Sunday night with it, shuffling around on equally unwashed floors only when I needed to either get a glass of water or empty the bladder of the same.
In short, I allowed myself to look as monstrous as I felt.
So to the questions that came from friends to how are you, I was a bit grumpy. I suppose if they could have seen me it would have been as evident to them as it was to me. Can’t take back the terse replies though (see “Get Out of Life’s Obligations” above) and, frankly, don’t think I should anyway. It’s the flu, people. And even without the rockstar status of the swineflu, we of the garden-variety flu get a solid 7 days of mean ol’ spiritedness if we want it.
