Or something like it.
I was talked into a flu shot for the first time this year. My wife, too. Should I regret it yet?
The young miss, being of a “higher risk” category, nets us parents a recommendation we get the shots as a precaution against a possible virulent outcome for her. Never mind that she goes to a high school for almost forty hours a week populated by 1,400 in-your-face-adolescents who might or might not be innoculated.
Anyway, my wife has been on bed rest nearly all week. (Though technically, it’s lounger-chair-rest since there the cats pile on her and she can watch reruns of NCIS.) I woke up this morning with a catch in a dry throat. When I asked, it was, “Yep; that’s how mine started.” And a few days after that shot, my upper arm is still sore from the poke.
The young miss, needless to say, is healthy as a horse. Usually once a winter I get some crud that sends me to bed for a few days. My wife’s fibro seems to intensify the routine winter illnesses–she might spend a sum total of two weeks each cold season on a routine of rest and chicken soup. I don’t like getting those retreats to bed kicking in by mid-October. That seems wrong.
Needless to say, weekend plans have been all shot to pieces. We were going to drive up to the Twin Cities for a wedding of two recent alums: a fine musician and one of our past peer ministers. The mistress of the household is still slumbering at nearly 10am. The young miss, too, but as a teen, that’s to be expected. No trip today.
Me, I have laundry to catch up on after spending my day off at a diocesan study day on parish leadership. No time or opportunity for leadership today. Just catching up on laundry and preparing full scores of the musical for my director. And hoping I stay one step ahead of the viruses and slings of the modern day. But if I have hope, I better get running.