*Which I am. . .so shut up.
I wasn't always that way. When I was a child some of my fondest memories were of sick days at home with Mom. She would let me sleep in my parents' bed and bring me dishes of orange sherbet and flat 7-Up while laying a cool hand on my feverish head. Flash forward to ten years of being married to someone who practically red-phoned the CDC when I got sick and made me sleep in the guest room so he wouldn't "catch my bullshit" and eventually I became like one of those cats that just crawls under the porch to die. I quickly learned that when ill it is best to just take a lesson from the Red October: shut down your baffles and make like a hole in the water. So this Thursday when I started puking like a Lohan at an after-party, I buried myself under a blanket, unplugged my phone and politely told my family and friends to fuck off. Oddly enough, Dylan would have none of that.
Friday was Dylan's day off and he showed up at my doorstep minutes after I'd returned home from making a run to the Kwik-E-Mart for Gatorade.*
*FYI, if driving while intoxicated is a felony, I can only imagine the legality of driving with a fever of 102' and urping into a Starbucks travel mug. Please, do not try this at home.
Despite the fact that I looked like Ozzy Osbourne circa-1998 and smelled like a Port-a-John at Lollapalooza, Dylan insisted upon bringing me water, holding my hair back on my numerous trips to Chateau d' Toilette, and ignoring my numerous pleas that he kindly go pound sand and leave me alone to die in a pool of my own filth. The man was as unstoppable as freaking Robocop. But eventually he wore me down and I allowed him to take care of me, although I kept a wary eye out for any outward signs of resentment and/or disgust. Oddly enough, I found none.
While I spent the bulk of the day about as coherent as Courtney Love at the VMA's, Dylan did the laundry, changed my sheets, cleaned the bathroom, and even helped me take a bath without any pretense of sexual overtures.*
*Which is wise, as when I am sick I am about as stabby as a Manson youth at a Polanski filmfest. Any unwanted appendages poked my way when I feel like shit are apt to get cut like last night's meatloaf.
May the odds be ever in my favor.