There was no denying it. My allergies had already been doing their best to incapacitate me this spring. I couldn't pass it off ass the tree sniffles. And if there was still a part of me in denial it certainly was shut up when as I made my way to the corner drugstore for supplies every muscle in my body was screaming that it made much more sense to be walking towards the bed because walking out the door surely meant death due to the plague that had invaded us. If we, my body and I, fell we may not have the strength to rise again and didn't we risk quarantine by going out in public?
When I am ill my body becomes a drama queen.
My adult brain wants to find a way to medicate the living daylights out of my body so that we can go on and do all that we need to do. There will be no sniffles stopping us!
My inner child wants hot soup, someone to brush my hair and read me stories.
I am now home. I didn't die in the street. I commenced negotiations and collectively I think we can agree we'd like to be in bed, covers pulled up and asleep right now.
The compromise is I plan on working from my bedroom with cup of hot broth and my little box of sudafed at my side with an afternoon nap to follow.