I think I’m finally getting better.
It’s been more than two weeks of snot and misery.
I’ve sneezed my way through the kids’ school holidays, visits with friends, bleary dates with DD, job interviews …
DD was quite horrified to be sent a picture of how my dining table looked after an old friend popped over the other night.
Me: “My friend Teish visited with her kids. She got to watch me do this …”
DD: “Bad origami?”
Me: “Gruesome sneezing and snotting.”
DD: “Did you really keep all the used tissues on the table?”
Me: “I was snotting a lot. It would have been very boring to get up every five seconds.”
DD: “Never complain about me putting my feet on a chair again …”
(He’s referring to my continuing horror that he wore thongs on our first date, proceeded to take them off in the pub, then plonked his BARE feet on the chair beside me. Quelle horreur!)
Those tissues were only about an hour’s worth of my Kleenex output.
I haven’t been to the gym FOREVER. I’ve cancelled so many walks and catch ups. I was supposed to have a drink with a fellow blogger last Wednesday, then this Wednesday and, remarkably, I had to postpone again.
DD assured me that I didn’t need to see a doctor, I’m just getting old and take longer to recover. No fever, not in my chest, doctor can’t help apparently.
But it’s decidedly unsexy to be snotty for weeks on end. It’s not better out … horrifying muscus explosion noises … and it’s no better hoovered back in with an unladylike snort. Codral doesn’t help. Champagne eases the pain slightly.
Come to think of it, I haven’t been a picture of health throughout most of our 18-month relationship. We’d only been on one date when he had to hold my hand – via iPhone – while I waited to get a Mirena to (try and) solve my lady plumbing issues.
Two operations and a breast cancer scare have followed, with him holding my actual hand through the lot.
I’m pretty sure there have been numerous snot festivals as well.
Middle-aged dating has its drawbacks …
Song of the day: D:ream “Things can only get better”