When I say “shingles,” I’m not talking about your roof.

I have joked that since I got married, I can officially commence letting myself go.

I thought I was joking. Maybe I wasn’t.

First? I had a stress fracture in my foot. Then? Allergic reaction to gunk on stitches. Now?

Oh, Lord. I have shingles.


Yes, I have the chicken pox virus-induced magic that is shingles. Me, and a whole bunch of elderly people.

Perhaps this is a sign that I am worn down, since it typically strikes folks with compromised immune systems. Like cancer or AIDS patients, or the elderly. Or, you know, otherwise healthy 36-year-old women who recently had a stress fracture and some gross rashes.

To the uninitiated, shingles is a rash that’s crazily only on one side of your body. And, it’s in a line. And it itches like poison ivy but, because shingles is a crazy bitch, also hurts. Hurts like you are being stabbed with multiple pencils.

Today, I actually wondered if I could just cut the rash off of my body, because that surely wouldn’t be this crappy.

But the crappiest part of all? I can’t be around pregnant people until this shit goes away. Which, even with drugs and such, could be weeks.

There are 2 women at work who are pregnant.

I can’t go to work.

I called my boss, practically delirious. “I don’t know what to do! I’m so gross! And I would die if something happened because I was all around the pregnant ladies! I’m so gross!”

Like having chicken pox at age 4 made me gross and not just, you know, like the rest of the adult population.

So, I’m working from home until, like, further notice.


I practically attacked My Guy when he got home from work today, and it’s only been 1 day. “How are you doing? How was work? What did you have for lunch?” Between that and my recent rash of oozing rashes? I am totally Dream Spouse.


There are just some times when you are out of sorts, you know? And now would definitely be one of those times.

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