“I cannot go to school today,” said little Peggy Ann McKay.

Why are sick days so much more fun when you’re a kid?  I remember my devotion to finding creative ways to stay home from school.  Pushing the toothbrush into the Gag Zone so I would throw up a little; sticking the thermometer under a lamp when The Mom and Dad weren’t looking. And on the rare days these tricks worked, I was rewarded with Saltines, Ginger Ale, TV, and a caregiver at my beck and call.

Damn rain-soaked pants.  This morning I went to the NYU nurse’s office to get two things: cough drops, and assurance that I am not a victim of 2010 Swine Flu.  I got two things: cough drops, and a command to go home.  I just got sent home from work.  Hell yeah, I texted The Sis, The Roommate, and The BF.  Now it’s six hours later and I am bored out of my mind.  Plus, I don’t remember sickness hurting so much when I was a kid.  Back then, all I could think about was what my sick day got me out of: teachers, dodgeball, schoolwork.  Now all I can think about is what being sick keeps me from getting to do: run, talk normally, feel like a human being.

The Sis got a big laugh out of my voice when she called.  I sound like a cross between Marlee Matlin and a donkey.  She humored me with an email recounting her shopping trip this morning:

What’s with people writing checks?  I mean, I do not understand how I have this uncanny knack at getting behind people in line writing a check at the store.  Even the express lane, where Publix clearly has a sign, “No checks, please.”  I stand there and watch these people slowly write out the check, then enter the amount in their register, then ever so slowly and carefully, tear the check out of the checkbook.  I mean, it takes so much longer!  I know I’m not the world’s most patient person by a long shot, but seriously.  I just want to say to these people, “Ever hear of a debit card, asshole?”

Seriously.  And though normally I would totally sympathize, now I’m just jealous that she feels well enough to go to the store.  Meanwhile, I’m sitting here with an appetite for only Gatorade and Peeps, and it turns out there is nothing but trash on TV during the day! And WHERE IS MY CAREGIVER??!!

There is so much I need to get done that I just don’t have the energy to tackle.  “I am not good at being sick,” I told the BF last night.  I loathe any situation that reminds me of my weakness, my inability to control everything around me.  There is a bathroom to be cleaned, an apartment to be packed, a manuscript to be finished, and–finally–beautiful weather to be enjoyed.  And I’m not up for any of it.  I finally worked up the energy to tackle one thing on the to-do list: grab my Bible and pick verses to be read at the wedding.  Enter Caregiver.  In a beautiful symmetry, plunging into those pages reminded me of the morning of my engagement, when I had a feeling and knew that such a day could only be started in one way.  So I let all my favorite words sink in, and though my joints still ache and I’m feeling a wave of Peep Nausea, I know I’m taken care of. Especially when the BF texted to let me know that he would cook dinner tonight. Now I just have to convince him that love means carrying me down three flights of stairs…