I am under strict orders from my husband to do absolutely nothing.
And now, while he's at work, he keeps texting me with this question: are you drinking your water?
At which point I proceed to grab my trusty water bottle that is sitting nearby, take a sip, and then text back: yes.
It would seem that Drew is not in love with the idea of a sick wife, not if he can help it, anyway.
And he has helped it. He took me to the doctor this morning, after three straight days of my fever not breaking, has proceeded to cancel my pilates class I was supposed to teach tomorrow (which is a real bummer; I truly enjoy it), and even forbade me from cleaning the house tonight.
I guess he's really worried about me; usually he truly appreciates a clean house.
So I am laying like a lump on my bed, surrounded by books, cats, and my computer, waiting for the z-pac the doctor gave me to kick in...But well, being sick is kind of boring. And frustrating. Here I am, at home, and not able to hang out with any of the fantastic people I am so wanting to see; I am with my piano, but being sick takes all the creativity right out of me, it seems.
Isn't it ironic? as Alanis Morissette would say.
But I am going to trust that tomorrow is going to find me feeling much better, that I will be back to my self again and ready to take on the world.
Or at least, you know, Newark, Delaware.