If you live in New York, chances are good that you've gotten sick recently. If you haven't, count yourself lucky so far and look out. I don't usually get really sick more often than once a year, but in the last two weeks I've been knocked off my gartered ass into oblivion, first by my first-ever case of food poisoning (suffered simultaneously by my man) and then by an extremely nasty cold, the dregs of which I am still fighting. It's not even March and I've already used up half my sick days. This does not bode well for a year where 100% of my vacation time has to go to my wedding and honeymoon.
Whenever I'm sick, I find it really hard to be a pinup. All I have to do is wear little or no makeup to work, and suddenly people are telling me how awful I look and that I should just go home and get some rest. I use this trick sometimes when I'm leading up to playing sick for a day, but when I actually am on my deathbed, it pains me to think that the sight of my face inspires pity. Like mercury rising in a thermometer, my health can often be surmised by the shade of my lips. Nude to pale pink means I'm struggling, but red means I'm back in business.
Today I'm wearing heels for the first time in a few days, hoping that by looking better I will feel better. It seems to be working a little, as the phlegm in my throat is intimidated to the point of moving on. More importantly, perhaps, I feel like myself again. Being removed is one of the hardest things about being sick, and coming back, though difficult, is your reward. Although days of camping out by a humidifier with my faithful pets, a hot pot of tea and old movies is a welcome respite from the grind of my day job, I eventually find myself in a state of depression at being a total waste of space. My man is happy to take up the slack around the house when I'm sidelined, but it doesn't take long before my innate sense of guilt takes over and I'm beating myself up for being an invalid slacker.
Slowly but surely, the pinup awakens from her slumber.
Whenever I'm sick, I find it really hard to be a pinup. All I have to do is wear little or no makeup to work, and suddenly people are telling me how awful I look and that I should just go home and get some rest. I use this trick sometimes when I'm leading up to playing sick for a day, but when I actually am on my deathbed, it pains me to think that the sight of my face inspires pity. Like mercury rising in a thermometer, my health can often be surmised by the shade of my lips. Nude to pale pink means I'm struggling, but red means I'm back in business.
Today I'm wearing heels for the first time in a few days, hoping that by looking better I will feel better. It seems to be working a little, as the phlegm in my throat is intimidated to the point of moving on. More importantly, perhaps, I feel like myself again. Being removed is one of the hardest things about being sick, and coming back, though difficult, is your reward. Although days of camping out by a humidifier with my faithful pets, a hot pot of tea and old movies is a welcome respite from the grind of my day job, I eventually find myself in a state of depression at being a total waste of space. My man is happy to take up the slack around the house when I'm sidelined, but it doesn't take long before my innate sense of guilt takes over and I'm beating myself up for being an invalid slacker.
Slowly but surely, the pinup awakens from her slumber.
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