But recovery is slow going. It doesn't help that the rest of life goes on without us. Work and school are indifferent to our aches and pains. The mailman doesn't want to feel our foreheads to see if we're running a fever. He tells us that's against United States Post Office rules.
So we sit weakly in our couch-cushion forts, draped with blankets and surrounded by half-empty beverage glasses. Is that a roll of toilet paper on the coffee table? Yes, but please don't tell anyone what you've seen. This malaise is only temporary. The sickness will move on to higher ground, and the fevers will pass. In the meantime, our little one soaks up all of the Wonder Pets she can stand through her droopy-lidded eyes. In the right light, she looks just like a Nick Nolte mugshot. Except smaller and more adorable.
Me, I prefer to soak my sorrows in over-the-counter cocktails. Hot frothy concoctions or fizzy, foamy highballs. I plan my night around them, really. Prepare them slowly, like Tom Cruise behind the bar in Cocktail. Spinning bottles like a circus performer, lighting things on fire. None of it necessary, but the ritual makes me happy. Makes the medicine taste better.
Then I sit, slunked down like a sand-filled dummy on the edge of the sofa, eating pretzels off of my chest and waiting for the drowsy to come. I watch new shows about ancient history. Footage of the atomic bomb and the last 10 minutes of movies I've already seen. I watch the police track down a serial killer in Oregon (or maybe Utah). And then I smile at Craig Ferguson for a minute or 10 before my head gets too heavy to hold up.
I'm hoping that in the morning one of us will feel better, touched in the night by the Good Fairy of Clear Sinuses. But we'll see. I've left the door open for her. Set out some cookies. I hear she's just crazy about Pecan Sandies. So keep your fingers crossed.
