Return to the Infirmary

Well, I got young M's cold or flu or whatever it is. Of course I did, Zicam and Emergen-C and determination notwithstanding. I made it through Saturday pretending to be fine (and now I feel like Typhoid Mary; you just know that I sent this evil bug to Baltimore with R and Charleston with M, thereby infecting the entire east coast in one swell foop) and then Sunday I had to give up. Yesterday my boss sent me home from work at noon with instructions not to return until I was better and dear god, please, don't touch anything on your way out the door. And now here I am with my last echinacea tea bag, a box of kleenex and all I could find at Downtown Books & News of the collected works of Melanie Rawn, which are that perfect thing for illness: neither complex or stupid enough to make your head hurt. At least it's raining and I don't have to feel like I'm missing a beautiful day, which always seems like it's adding insult to injury. Anyway, here I am at home, going momentarily back to bed. Sore throat? Check. Cough? Check. Stuffed up nose? Check? Generally miserable? Check.