Sicko

Ugh! I am sick. In the head. Really.

Okay, not of the mental, there are bugs in my cereal sort (although I'm sure there would be a line up of people to argue the finer points of THAT discussion) but more in the every single cavity in my head is filled with sand kind of way.

This past weekend, the kids were with their father and Dallas and I looked forward to spending a few precious minutes alone. Except that I was about as much fun as a root canal. We did attend our engagement party on Saturday and as documented, I shed a few tears which only made my head case situation worse. By the time we went home that night, I felt like eighty percent of my body weight was located from my nose up. I was worried about looking left or right for fear that the motion would send me careening into the nearest blunt object.

Sunday morning, I was miserable. I had been using homeopathic remedies for over a week with no improvement and finally, I had to throw in the towel. Dallas tried repeatedly to get me to the doctor the week before but I was convinced that if I sucked enough of those bloody, foul zinc lozenges, I could beat it. Wrong. So off we went to the nearest clinic.

An unexpected bonus was that the doctor looked like Denzel Washington. Now given my past experience with mistaken identity, I probably don't have any credibility but Dallas drew my attention to the likeness, though. It was a little distracting.

The examination was pretty routine. Blood pressure, look in the ear, listen to the heart, open up, say "ah". Normal. Then the doctor did the worst thing possible. He asked me the question:

"How long has this been going on?" (meaning my ill health although I expected Dallas to pipe up and tell him eight months and that we'd met on eHarmony)

"Since a week ago last Thursday." I answered meekly. Denzel looked at me with surprise and then iced Dallas's cake.

"Well, where have ya' been?" (meaning, of course, that I should have had my infected self to the clinic DAYS before). Dallas is not one to say "I told you so" but he was clearly delighted with the doctor's displeasure. If he was a cat, he would have been flossing his teeth with my tail feathers.

So, the doctor called in an antibiotic and in a few days, I'll have a burning yeast infection desire to go back to the gym. Oh joy. Obviously this is preferable to begging my fiance to stick the vacuum cleaner up my nose or drill a hole in the side of my head to relieve the pressure.