I never wanted to be one of THOSE people…

With my career I fly a lot – when I say a lot, about twice in a month and I am away from home for just under a week at a time.  Because of this I have become good at the routines of flying and all the little bits and bobs that go with it.

There is nothing more frustrating than being in the que for boarding your flight at the gate and the person in front of you forgets that they need to produce their identity book or passport.  I always huff a bit when I am behind one such person.  It is rather frustrating while you stand patiently in the queue with your requested items in hand, ready and waiting, and then you have to patiently (not so much in my case) wait while the flustered human being digs through every nook and cranny in their giant bag to find their little magic book.  It frustrates me all the more when I must stand there, required items in hand, and watch while the queue next to me gaily files through for boarding and I think to myself, “Why didn’t I choose THAT queue?”.  Eventually the guilty party recovers their little book, presents it to the checkpoint person, and the queue gets on the move again.  I normally end up trying to now get ahead of the offending person in the walk down the passage to the plane just because if I look at them I get annoyed.  I know, the bitch in me comes out.

I have always insisted that I will NEVER be the person that holds up the que while digging for my identity book.  I will always have all my items ready and waiting to be presented at the gate.  I was a Girl Guide when I was young and my motto is to still always “Be Prepared”. And I always am.  Except for yesterday morning…

I arrived at the airport for my flight on time, a bit bleary-eyed because of the very early start.  I sat down at boarding Gate 2 and promptly hauled out my IPad to catch up on some blog reads.  This was my undoing.  I got so absorbed in reading that when I looked up the queue had formed to start the little dance through the boarding gate.  I hauled my heavy laptop bag onto my back, still clutching my IPad, and walked (while reading) to join the queue.  We all stood in the queue, like cattle in a crush, for a further 10 minutes before being allowed to move through the gate.  This was more than enough time for me to realise that there was an item missing from my little paw.  But my nose remained attached to my IPad and my head filled with words that were not mine.

The que moved forward.  As I reached the check-point I quickly flipped my IPad closed at the last minute, and passed the lady my ticket. The dreaded words were spoken “May I see your ID please?”.  These words filtered through my subconscious like frost settling on warm branches.  I felt cold all over.  I had done it.  I was finally the plague of the boarding queue.  In complete embarrassment, with a furious blush rising on my cheeks, I started the frantic search for my ID book which I had casually shoved into a crevice of my GIANT handbag when I checked in for my flight at the check-in counter without a care in the world.  My bag seemed to get bigger and bigger the longer it took to find the dreaded little book.  At one point I glanced up in panic to the bespectacled gentleman behind me in the queue only to see that same look of frustration, pretended patience, annoyance, aggravation, and disdain that is normally upon my face when I am behind one of the human race that is unprepared at the boarding gate.

Eventually my pawing hand came to grips with the ID book and with a triumphant (but embarrassed) flourish I produced the offending item to the patient lady.  It is important to also note that her hand remained during this entire time extended outwards waiting for the little book.  Her arm must have been tired.  She checked my identity (which, after this process, I was none too sure of myself) and waved me through the gate.

Down the passage I rushed forward to ensure that I did not further aggravate the bespectacled gentleman that was behind me and said a silent prayer that he would not end up sitting next to me. God must have felt that I was sufficiently embarrassed and sorry for my lack of preparedness and spared me the pain of sitting next to him.  I tried to remain anonymous for the remainder of the flight.

So, yesterday I became one of THOSE people.  And you know what?  I STILL hate them.

When you know that you are dying…but nobody else does.

The flu has been creeping up silently on me for the past week and it has finally dug its evil little claws into my body.  I have been gaily pretending that I have not felt it happening and have been taking the odd Corenza-C here and there to boost my immune system but to no avail.  They say that the mind is a powerful tool – my mind? Not so much on the power-thing.  I have been diligently thinking “I’m not sick, I’m not sick, I’m not sick” but my mind has had other ideas.

I am sick.  My mind knows it. My body now also knows it.

I have resigned myself to the bed.  I am surrounded by my dogs, an old senile cat, 2 members of the CPP and a snow-storm of tissues.

There is nothing more boring than being in bed.  It is worse than watching grass grow.  

My bedside cupboard is cluttered with a variety of medicines which despite assurances of relieving congestion and pain have yet to prove themselves in that department. The throat spray is very entertaining – either there is something wrong with the mechanism or with my aim.  I have a sad feeling that it is my aim.  Or otherwise my throat jumps out the way every time I hit that nozzle.  My husband suggested I use it as a nasal spray…can you IMAGINE where it would end up then??

I don’t think I am a very good patient by any stretch of one’s imagination.  It is not a pretty sight.  I am worse than my husband when I am sick. My husband likes to pretend he is fine – he wants to still do everything he normally does when he is well.  Like makIng coffee, cooking supper, feeding horses, painting figurines, sculpting strange little gaming creatures, as well as working with potent chemicals that burn away all inner linings of exposed orifices.  I, on the other hand, go to 2 various levels of extremes. The first level is deniability. This I try to maintain for a good length of time.  It does work to a point.  But my immune system has never been strong and eventually caves under the pressure. Then we enter level two.  This is where I know that I am dying but nobody else seems to know.  I cocoon myself under the covers which is where I then determine that I need to stay at all costs.

When I state “at all costs” – I really mean it.  I may WANT coffee or lunch but the kitchen is too far and too cold to make it worth the indulgence at the end of the trip. If nobody offers to get it or bring it to me then I just go without.  But believe me, I am not above asking, or begging, for something to be brought to me. If I know that you are headed to the kitchen I will have a little list of important items for you to bring to me. I am not ashamed of this. I would do it for you if you were sick and herein lies my reasoning.

Sometimes a duvet-day is all my system needs to recover. 

When i am savvy enough to admit that yes, I am getting sick, and I take a duvet-day to keep my body warm and my system relaxed then it is just the whack of the nail on the head that my body needs. These are actually wonderfully productive days for me as I start working early on my laptop and continue through the entire day and most of the evening at a fast, steady pace.  A heavy load of e-mails get fired to my reps which results in groans and comments of “Boss, have you found your keyboard again?” or “I heard via my e-mails that you were working late…”  I normally plough through when I am sick and manage really well.

The problem is that when I have been struggling to admit that I am indeed sick the duvet-day is always a little bit too late for my system and then I really hit “woman down” status.  This means that I cannot even attempt to get some work done while sitting ensconced in the bed.  My vision is blurred, my mind is foggy, my ears are stuffed with cotton-wool, my nose is either blocked or running, and I can’t sit up for too long without feeling like I want to pass out. This is how I feel today so clearly no medicine is working any miracles.  I am also answering the minimal amount of e-mails required as I do not trust my judgment or thought processes. This is why I am blogging. It is much safer to continue to embarrass myself to my friends and followers rather than let many of my associates listen to my dodgy opinions and reasoning.

Today has been a long and slow day. I hate being still.  I hate my independence being reduced to lying on my back in bed counting the small spots on the ceiling and looking for imaginary faces in the curtains, cupboard wood grain, or duvet pattern. I am used to doing.  I am used to being on the go, being productive, not slowing to a man-down all-out stand-still…or in this case a “lie-still”. What a waste of a day.  Life is meant to be lived not spent lazing in bed with a head full of cotton-wool. 

Today I have read my book, spent time on Pinterest, Facebook, doodled in my creative book, and am now blogging.  And still I am unhappy and annoyed.  It is days like these where I am convinced that I am dying because surely, this is what it must feel like?  Certainly dying from boredom would be top of the list of experiences.  I very often then ask my husband, when feeling particularly bored, ill and desperate, to look after my FurKidz when I die.  I even go through the list of foods that they eat and the colors of the bags and the shape of the kibbles so that I am convinced that when I die they will be sufficiently looked after.  I then finish off with the statement “Want must die” which I really do want at the time.  Hell must be better than this boredom.  I breathe through my mouth and grumble and groan.  The bottom line is FRUSTRATION.  Pure, no-frills-attached frustration.

Nobody in this household takes me seriously – I’m dying, and they don’t acknowledge it.  I may be long past my Sell By Date and ready to be thrown out with the garbage  But they humor me and this makes me feel lots better.

I am insisting that I will be fine and fully better tomorrow.  I am tired of the spots on the ceiling, the faces in the wood grain and the duvet.  And this is only after ONE day in bed…

I am too passionate about my career to be lying here incapacitated so I will be generously sharing my germs with everyone tomorrow.

My sympathies if you are sick in bed.  I feel your pain.