EVERYTHING HURTS AND I’M DYING, but It’s Fine

The fun thing about having a respiratory infection (confirmed not COVID, just rando other funky lung bug), when you and your pelvic floor are 190 years-old, is you’re always cough-zing, which is coughing and whizzing in your pants.

I’m usually pretty continent (high-fives all around), but when I’m staying super hydrated in order to flush this unholy mess out, and I have these spontaneous full-body coughing possessions, my underwear has…regrets.

This morning was especially fun, when the gentle drip of water-snot coming from my Neti Pot, coupled with the hacking and the full bladder, made me run, dripping from both ends, from my sink to my toilet.

I keep wanting to go out and do things, now that we’re officially not passing around the consumption, but I just don’t think I am fit for public consumption at this time. Even though the CDC says it’s cool to mouth kiss strangers on the street again, or whatever, I believe I’ll wait to inflict myself on people outside my immediate home until my voice doesn’t sound all gravely and flat like the ghost of…Jacob Marley (I almost said Bob Marley, but that would be AWESOME) and I can control all of my body fluids.

You’re welcome, world. But when everything stays where it’s supposed to, and my voice is back to its normal, painfully nasal Midwestern twang, it’s on, binches!