That pretty much sums up my night tonight. I'm curling up on the couch, sipping at a steaming bowl of chicken soup that my lovely husband concocted (with a little help from his couch-ridden, watery-eyed, frog-voiced wife). I told him the measurements and quantities of all the ingredients, and he did the rest.
He's not used to me being sick. It's usually him that gets sick, and I'm the one running around making soup and tea and bringing water and orange juice for him to drink. Seriously, I don't think I've ever been this sick since I've been married. Maybe once, but it's a far distant memory.
The NHL All-Star game is on tonight, which means that I can't watch the Simpsons anymore. They've kept me company for hours as I sniffled, hacked, gagged, and coughed my way through the afternoon. It's not so bad, though, I don't mind watching hockey most times. Plus I do like the skills competition, it's fun to watch.
In times like these it's easy to be miserable. But I have a husband who swears I'm still pretty even though my eyes are puffy and surrounded by ghastly dark circles, my nose is red and raw from wiping, and I perpetually cough and hack and sneeze every few seconds. Plus he went to town to buy me lemons today, so I could make a nice mug of lemon & honey tea. And that's just razz.
Hey, my dogs don't care that I'm sick, either. They sit at my feet and curl up on my lap just as happily as if I weren't a fountain of germ-laden spittle. I don't think they even notice that my hair is caught up in a lop-sided bun, with stray wisps sticking out at ridiculous angles, or that I haven't changed out of my pajamas since I got home from work on Friday.
Well, I'm losing steam again, better go fall listlessly onto the couch once more, and in a few minutes maybe muster up the energy to climb upstairs to bed. Maybe.