“I’llbeokayI’mjustgonnaliedownforaminute.” That’s what I remember telling Nick last night before I flopped over on the couch last night around 7, letting the waves of a nasty flu bug envelope me.
It was that kind of sick where you can’t get up from the sofa, the TV is on the entire time, and you have long stretches of hallucinatory unconsciousness followed by brief moments of lucidity. Like, I remember attempting to down this God-awful Theraflu concoction while watching the men ski the giant slalom. About when Bode Miller couldn’t make it down the rest of the hill is when I decided I couldn’t chug the rest of that stuff without gagging and so I succumbed to sleep once more. What I remember of the 18+ hours that followed may or may not have involved having make-believe conversations with Matt Lauer, hearing Dr. Phil stage an intervention in my sleep and dreams in which I danced on a coffee table with Ellen.
It’s 4 o’clock now and I finally feel human again. Which means now that I can string coherent thoughts together once more, my brain automatically wants to start ticking through that to-do-list of mine. Then there’s my body, which is weak enough to remind me I just need to relax. Hold on to that pillow and blanket and all-night coverage of the Olympics just a bit longer. After all, being “me” is what helped land me here in the first place. Trying to do everything and nothing at once. So if I want to be 100 percent again before tomorrow, I gotta at least let myself be sick for the rest of the day.
Just so, you know, I can cross it off my to-do-list and all 
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by Gail Werner
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