At times I wonder if the Gods are deliberately trying to piss me off. The signs are all there. They make sure I am the last to know about the office party. They sneak age upon me. They keep fixing me up with emo guys with long hair with a, putting it mildly, disputable taste in music who all just happens to have an ex girlfriend named Therese. And when they want to be particularly cruel, when I least expect it, or for that matter least need it, they throw a cold at me.
This time it is the latter that they has scourged me with. The very day I woke up with the first radiant thought in my mind to pick up seriously on my work out, they make sure that the second thought is the insight that my throat is - God forbid! - sore. So now I am home, sniveling like a three year old cry-baby on her first night without her nappy.
Thank heavens that they were at least merciful enough to hit me with it not a week after my probation period ended and I am finally allowed to take payed sick days.
Still, if sickness does one thing to me it is pissing me off. I hate being sick. I am completely furious at my body for daring to be weak enough to break down for some puny bacteria. Bacteria are for weaklings, not for Vikings, and I hate to think what that equation makes me. All I want is to go out and run for a couple of miles, just to show it off, but at the same time I am well aware that exercising with a sore throat can get you heart sack inflammation (spare me the correct medical term) and leave you in bed for months, which is even worse.
Thus my private battle is fought in the couch at home with ridiculous amounts of garlic and ginger tea (boy, some guy out there should be really glad that he hasn't met me yet) and a stubborn determination that I am better than it!
Unfortunately my effort seems to have given me nothing but a second wave of "close to fever" and "unable to breathe", in what I assume is the return fire from the bad side of health. My throat is swullen without hurting, not a good sign I suspect, my eyes are so irritated they can easily compete with my sad remains of a nose (which by the way has taken on a very bright and Christmasy nuance) and my head feels as if it is four kilos heavier and at least two sizes too small.
It is nine fifteen pm and I am seriously considering going to bed. Had I been eight, no six, no even four years younger I would have thought that was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard. There was a time when I considered going to bed at midnight to be a shockingly early bedtime. Those were the days, though, and now I am older and presumably wiser (although the jury's still out on that one), and the old and wise lady that I have become in that short time frame I am bound to find rest and peace in my bed, fifteen minutes past nine pm.
Did you hear that, Gods? Rest assured, I'm coming to beat you up. Now where on earth did I put my cane?
This time it is the latter that they has scourged me with. The very day I woke up with the first radiant thought in my mind to pick up seriously on my work out, they make sure that the second thought is the insight that my throat is - God forbid! - sore. So now I am home, sniveling like a three year old cry-baby on her first night without her nappy.
Thank heavens that they were at least merciful enough to hit me with it not a week after my probation period ended and I am finally allowed to take payed sick days.
Still, if sickness does one thing to me it is pissing me off. I hate being sick. I am completely furious at my body for daring to be weak enough to break down for some puny bacteria. Bacteria are for weaklings, not for Vikings, and I hate to think what that equation makes me. All I want is to go out and run for a couple of miles, just to show it off, but at the same time I am well aware that exercising with a sore throat can get you heart sack inflammation (spare me the correct medical term) and leave you in bed for months, which is even worse.
Thus my private battle is fought in the couch at home with ridiculous amounts of garlic and ginger tea (boy, some guy out there should be really glad that he hasn't met me yet) and a stubborn determination that I am better than it!
Unfortunately my effort seems to have given me nothing but a second wave of "close to fever" and "unable to breathe", in what I assume is the return fire from the bad side of health. My throat is swullen without hurting, not a good sign I suspect, my eyes are so irritated they can easily compete with my sad remains of a nose (which by the way has taken on a very bright and Christmasy nuance) and my head feels as if it is four kilos heavier and at least two sizes too small.
It is nine fifteen pm and I am seriously considering going to bed. Had I been eight, no six, no even four years younger I would have thought that was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard. There was a time when I considered going to bed at midnight to be a shockingly early bedtime. Those were the days, though, and now I am older and presumably wiser (although the jury's still out on that one), and the old and wise lady that I have become in that short time frame I am bound to find rest and peace in my bed, fifteen minutes past nine pm.
Did you hear that, Gods? Rest assured, I'm coming to beat you up. Now where on earth did I put my cane?