I dripped and hacked my way through work Friday. I was dragging tail. Of course, since I wasn't moving quickly enough, a lousy bunch of germs hitched a ride....and now I sound like I'm smoking again.
I'll try not to sneeze on the screen.
I got home from work, threw on my moose pants (flannel, decorated with mooses and loons and polar bears and elk and trees. I do look a TREAT in these. I couldn't find my orange tiger-striped socks, but the fuzzy pink and white ones were calling my name.)
B KNOWS I'm sick when I look like a bag lady.
So last night, Rosey began to sniffle too. We were sick together, taking up space on the couch, passing back and forth the box of kleenex, looking glazed and uncomfy. I already knew I was spending the night on the couch (to spend the night in the marital bed would risk infecting B and bringing down the last healthy parent.) and so I'd brought down my quilt, a few pillows, etc. I was checking in on Facebook and noticed that Rosey....wasn't talking anymore. Yep.
Rosey was sacked out in the middle of our couch.
I half-heartedly tried to wake her up, but she was sick, and tired, and she needed sleep too.
So last night I.....slept in the recliner. It wasn't the best sleep ever. I was assailed by a sense of deja vu, and I realized that the last time I slept in the living room chair, Rosey herself had been a baby, sleeping on me in the wavering blue light of yet another Law and Order episode.
It felt good.
Well, as good as it could with my blubbering snot all over the place.
'Scuse me while I go get another mug of something hot, will you?