Feeling: wretched
Listening to: electronic buzz
Reading/Watching: other journals

Being sick has given me a very low tolerance for other people's flaws.

Admittedly, being tired/in pain/dizzy/feverish doesn't tend to bring out the best mood in anyone, but I think I'm getting extra snappish because I have to do things, and if I can't, if I have to depend on other people to do it for me, I am a nightmare of guilt and boredom and Gloria-Swanson-level perfectionism as I look over their shoulder. Part of the reason I don't ask other people to do things for me is because I'm convinced I'd spend so much time explaining how to do it correctly that I might as well just do it myself.

Yes, they call that micro-managing. Admitting you have a problem is the first step.

Aside from that, I'm also having to cancel voice lessons and call in to the church job, because my voice is a cross between Kathleen Turner's and Marge Simpson's, and I don't particularly want to share this lovely bug with everyone I meet. Plus, the whole dizzy factor makes me kinda reluctant to leave the couch, period. This means no income for the past four days. Very, very bad thing.

But today was the worst, because I was feeling semi-normal, but still tired and sore. I went out, gave a voice lesson (I don't know whether I'm still contagious, but I didn't touch her or her piano, I didn't cough or sneeze on her, and I stood about four feet back and gave her instructions, so I think she'll be okay; she's ten, she's tough), then tried to pick up dinner at a drive-thru on the way home, because I knew that if I didn't have the energy to cook, mon coeur would have no idea what to fix, nimsay would be incapable of cooking, and we would basically starve or order out anyway.

Let me just say, whoever decided to put a drive-thru on a Subway is not entirely bright. It took thirty minutes between placing and receiving my order, and they screwed up virtually every aspect of it (well, they got the meat right), but of course I didn't know that until I was on my way home. For a business that prides itself on making something the way you want it, they really should stick to the format where the customer watches through a sneeze guard to make sure every single fricking pickle chip is done correctly.

But it's not entirely about sandwiches. The main thing that's been bothering me is that while I've been sick, I've occasionally had mon coeur bring me something, and during the part of the day where he's sleeping (meaning, until 3 or 4 p.m.), I fend for myself. Sometimes that meant crawling to get something to eat, or drink, because walking made my head spin. Sometimes, that meant smothering the urge to cough, because it made everyone in the room make sympathetic noises and feel sorry for me. Sometimes, it meant standing in the kitchen heaving and sobbing between coughs, because my throat was so torn up that moving it at all made tears come to my eyes, and I couldn't go back into anyone's line of sight until I'd regained control of myself.

And the instant I could walk without passing out, I was back to doing the dishes and cooking dinner and cleaning up, and he was back to playing on his computer. Not that he asked me to do these things, I just started doing them again before he managed to get around to doing it himself. Never mind that I still feel crappy and need sleep and rest to finish recovering, now that I am mobile again, he's off the hook. And that annoys me, because I'd really like for him to help out even when I'm no longer completely bedridden.

Except, reading over this, I'm realizing things (ha, the entire reason of this journal). It's hard to remember others' perspective when the contents of your skull is at a temperature high enough to cook meat, but that's the perfect time to let things go, to be a little less vigilant about whether there are dishes in the sink, or random tissues lying on the coffee table. If I waited, I'm sure he'd take care of it eventually (although I might have to remind him). I'm just not a very patient person, even with my own weakness, and it drives me crazy to sit there and wait for someone else. It drives me crazy to sit there and admit that I should wait for someone else.

He's taking care of me, he's just doing it at his own pace. Maybe I should slow down and wait for his pace. Might help make this being-sick thing a hell of a lot easier.

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