I’m a guy. I don’t do “sick” well. It’s just one of the charming aspects of the gender that I know all the women-folk out there enjoy. In keeping with that theme, one of the things we guys like to do is complain loudly and at length about how bad we feel. Since this is my megaphone of choice, that means you all are along for the ride.
Let me say for the record that I don’t feel awful, just not as good as I think I should. Not achy and full of snot. Not shivering and covered in blankets. Not sneezing and yacking up lunch. It’s just a more generalized “blah” kind of feeling that lets you know something in your system is minimally off. Since there’s no real symptoms besides this generalized blah, there’s really nothing to be done other than load up on fluids and vitamin c, try getting to bed early, and hope to wake up feeling ok in the morning. Even if I wake up feeling less than ok, this isn’t a good week for it. Tempting as it might be to spend the whole day on the couch watching old episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (my go-to sick on the couch activity of choice), I’ve done a far too successful job of hoarding information this week and have, unfortunately, made showing up at work tomorrow not an optional activity. That one part of my conscience that isn’t dead or numbed out by life won’t let me throw someone under the bus if I can avoid it.
Since tomorrow is a work day whether good or ill, I’m going to go heavy on the hope that this is a passing funk that will clear the system overnight so I have some kind of chance of being at least a marginally productive employee. In case you’re wondering, that’s about as selfless a statement as you’re every going to drag out of me, so go ahead and enjoy it.