Day Two of the Plague: A Funny Saga of Pain and Procrastination

So, here I am, on day two of what feels like a vacation to the seventh circle of hell. My body has decided to stage a mutiny, and I’m left here feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck driven by a vindictive flu virus.

You know you’re in for a treat when even your hair follicles ache. Seriously, I didn’t know it was possible for my scalp to hurt until today. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear I’ve been wrestling with a grizzly bear in my sleep.

My chest feels like it’s hosting a rave party for sledgehammers, my back is staging a protest against me, and every muscle in my body is sending me hate mail. If there’s an Olympics for whining, sign me up—I’ve been training for this my whole life.

But wait, it gets better. Not only am I on the verge of becoming a permanent resident of my bed, but I also have a to-do list longer than the Nile River. Three daughters who seem to have declared war on cleanliness, ages ranging from ‘Why won’t you nap, you adorable tornado?’ to ‘Can you please stop rolling your eyes at me, it’s too early for sass.’

And let’s not forget the house, which apparently decided to self-destruct the moment I succumbed to this plague. It’s like every dish in the sink is mocking me, and the laundry pile is taunting me with its Everest-like proportions.

But hey, who needs productivity when you can perfect the art of moaning like a dying walrus every time you shift in bed? Oh, and let’s not forget the endless parade of tissues. At this point, I’m considering fashioning them into a chic accessory—I could start a trend.

So, to summarize, if anyone needs me, I’ll be here, buried under a mountain of blankets and self-pity, contemplating the meaning of life and the likelihood of survival until the pizza delivery guy shows up. Until then, send reinforcements—preferably in the form of chocolate and a hazmat suit.