... when she has to finally admit she's sick.
People, I am sick. Ill. Ailing. Broken down. Feeble. In poor health.
Feeling like hammered dog shit, as my college roommate used to say.
I tried to fight it, I really did. But sick won. And the truth is, I don't get sick very often, so I've been in a bit of denial all week long, continuing to move at my normal pace. But it's time to face facts: my voice isn't Brenda-Vaccaro-sexy, it's Harvey-Fierstein-on-8-packs-of-cigarettes-a-day-alarming. The coughing fit I had all night last night could've woken the dead. And there's nothing alluring about the smell of Vicks.
So today, for the first time, I'm ignoring all the construction workers crawling over my house and back yard, and taking to my bed, pulling the covers over my head. When I'm not sleeping, I'll be mainlining tea and various over-the-counter drugs. And scaring the dog a little with my croaky voice, just for kicks.
Back soon. Don't forget to take your vitamins, friends.