Getting Shit Done

I can’t believe it, folks. I finally feel somewhat human again after what seems like an eternity of being held hostage by this mystery cold-flu hybrid from hell. For days, my body was a battlefield and my sinuses were trying to drown me in my own mucus. I was starting to think I’d never see the light of day again, like one of those medieval peasants succumbing to the plague. But, miracle of miracles, today I woke up and I could breathe. No more feeling like I’m sniffing molten lava every time I inhale. No more nose auditions for the Niagara Falls. And my body? It’s not staging a reenactment of the Hundred Years’ War anymore. I might actually live!

So, with my newfound lease on life, I decided to tackle the mountain of shit I’ve been neglecting. First stop: the to-do list, which by now was more like a scroll of doom. Dishes piled up to the ceiling, laundry that could probably walk itself to the washing machine, and a carpet that looked like it had been host to a wildlife preserve. It was time to put on my big kid pants and get to work.

I started with the kitchen. God, what a disaster zone. I half expected to find a family of raccoons making a home in the sink. As I scrubbed away layers of grime, I found myself almost enjoying it. Almost. The sense of accomplishment was better than any cold medicine. Goodbye, festering leftovers, hello, semi-respectable kitchen.

Next up was the laundry. Let’s talk about laundry for a second. Who the fuck invented this never-ending cycle of doom? It’s like Sisyphus pushing his damn boulder, except my boulder is a mountain of dirty socks and underwear. But today, I took that mountain down. One load after another, I watched the mess shrink and felt a weird kind of satisfaction. Maybe this is what being an adult is all about—conquering piles of fabric and feeling like a hero.

With the kitchen and laundry somewhat under control, I turned my attention to the rest of the house. The dust bunnies were breeding like… well, rabbits. And there’s nothing quite like realizing your carpet has been doubling as a petting zoo. Armed with my trusty vacuum, I went to war. By the end, I was half expecting a medal for bravery. Or at least a thank you from the allergy gods.

The whole time, I was reveling in the simple joy of not feeling like death warmed over. It felt amazing to be busy again, to be doing things other than shuffling from the bed to the couch in a mucus-fueled haze. I even managed to make a decent meal for myself, something that didn’t come from a can or involve just-add-water instructions. Progress, people. Real progress.

By the end of the day, I was exhausted, but in a good way. Not the sick, I-need-to-lie-down-and-die kind of exhaustion, but the I-did-stuff-and-feel-accomplished kind. It was a reminder that I can actually function like a normal human being, and not just a sniffling, coughing, snot-filled mess.

So here’s to feeling human again, to kicking ass and taking names on the to-do list, and to finally seeing the light at the end of the snot-filled tunnel. If you’ve ever been laid out by a mystery illness, you know what I’m talking about. It’s the little victories that make you feel like you can take on the world—or at least tackle another load of laundry.