I know it’s obvious that people get sick when their bodies are run down, but I don’t think it can be more evident in any one but me. I never get sick—not even living in a dorm full of gross high school boys—unless I have run my body ragged 24/7 for at least two days. After a rough week, I could basically predict the onset of symptoms to the second if I didn’t believe in the power of positive psychology and willing oneself to stay well. For some reason I try to keep believing I am not sick until I have been down-and-out for two full days, blown through three boxes of tissues, eaten all the soup in the house, and smell like a sick person. You know, that stale pajamas smell? Not body odor, and not smelly feet or anything…just sick people smell. Smells like you haven’t moved in sixteen hours, are dehydrated, and don’t care if the ceiling is really boring to stare at because you can’t will yourself to do anything else. Sick-people smell is when I give in. But I hate it.
We were on weekend dorm duty, which means we had to stay up until midnight Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, for the second weekend in a row. Staying up until midnight totally throws me off. Call me a wiener but I need my beauty sleep; I’m talking nine hours at least. Then I’m good to go. I think going back to grad school left me a little spoiled in the good-sleeping-hours department; I hope I never have to have a “real” job. Sigh. Anyway, on this second-in-a-row weekend of midnight nights, my boyfriend became sick. He was shivering on the couch and whining like a pussy for hours on Friday—I almost wasn’t nice to him because it was so annoying that he wouldn’t admit he felt bad and just go to bed already. Not that’s that what I would do or anything. So, he spent the night tossing, turning, kicking, sweating, drooling, coughing, stealing the covers, and breathing right into my face. I got up early (not good on the late nights, remember?) after this wonderfully refreshing night of sleep to drive to Philadelphia for a wedding. Which I went to by myself. This is probably the bravest and most social thing I have ever done, by the way. That adventure by itself was stress on my body, let alone the lack of sleep and exercise it entailed. So then, Saturday, I spent the night at my friend’s house outside of Princeton, which is sort of near Philadelphia, and we stayed up late, drinking red wine, eating cookie dough, and watching Brian Williams on SNL because we used to teach and babysit his kids. He was really good, if you are one for watching back episodes of late-night sketch comedy. You have to ignore the current cast, who is just horrible, but I give Mr. Williams credit.
Needless to say, Sunday morning rolls around and I feel pretty poopy. I had the fat cat sleeping on my stomach all night, I was sunk into the couch which, no matter how wonderful, will never be my own bed, I went to sleep sugar high, teeth stained cabernet, and woke up after not enough sleep. Five hours in the car led me back to dorm duty, which I totally took over for still-really-sick-man (who is very cool for staying by his sick self to cover for me, btw). At this point, there was no chance for napping or even sitting still. Then again, making sure kids turn their lights out on time and don’t sneak out of the locked and alarmed house isn’t really tough work. Alas, it was enough to exhaust me to sickness of the 101 fever, shakes (doesn’t that mean you get to drink?), and plain old misery all over variety. Naturally, it’s my second day in a row skipping my training…and I foresee several more ahead.
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