Like, for real sick. I’ve had a nasty cold for more than a week. In addition to filling my lungs with crud, it’s also severely damaged my psyche. I need someone to pat my hair and tell me I’m pretty, even with the mucous.
My Guy is also sick. Therefore, he is not able to pat said hair and tell said wife that she is pretty. Between the two of us, we are barely holding it together in a “all I want to eat is Lay’s Barbecue Chips” sort of lethargic way.
He actually went to work today after being home sick the rest of the week. I needed him to pick up my prescriptions, as we get our meds through his employer’s pharmacy in his office building.
You can see where this is going.
Right as I was finally finishing putting away groceries and cleaning up stuff and making the bed for the family members crashing at our house tonight, My Guy called. He was en route to the airport in my car to pick up said family members. He had forgotten my meds and was too far gone to turn back.
The pharmacy closed in 45 minutes.
Instead of sitting down to catch my breath and take a long, luxurious nose blow, I threw on a coat and hopped into My Guy’s truckasaurus. I was a tiny, angry woman behind the wheel of a large black SUV.
I have a theory that tiny women driving large black SUVs are never happy, and today I was a self-fulfilling prophesy.
I felt bad. My body was 87.35 percent mucous. I was absolutely out of anti-depressants and wasn’t about to go a weekend without them. My brain was broken and this fault in the very core of my person was forcing me out into the dank weather. I was exhausted from coughing. I looked bedraggled at best. All I wanted was someone to fuss over me just a tiny bit. Being the adult sucks. Everything is terrible.
I got to the corporate campus. Security was backed up and I had to wait. The guard finally got to me and apologized. I was, dear friends, gracious as fuck.
And then I drove on and was good and mad again.
I got to the pharmacy and the monotone woman was working. She never shows any emotion. But she asked my name. My date of birth. She rang me up.
I started to crack, just a teensy bit.
“You know, my husband forgot to pick these up for me, and he called on his way to the airport to tell me the pharmacy closed in 45 minutes.”
Monotone Woman raised her eyebrow. “Did you tell him the locks will be changed by the time he gets home?”
And then? Then I twirled around like Julie Andrews on top of the mountain in “The Sound of Music!” I was seen! I was understood! Monotone Woman got me!
It’s the best I’ve felt all week.