I finally allowed myself to be talked into going to the doctor (Father forgive me my stubborn self). My real doctor couldn’t take me until a date so far off in the distance I would have probably died of the common cold before we saw each other, so I checked myself into urgent care for the first time in my adult life.
The doctor asked me what I thought I had, and I said, “I don’t know.” She didn’t know that I have fighter pilot vision and could watch her type on her little screen, “‘I don’t know.'” Had I foreseen this, I might have croaked, “Cancer” . . . or . . . “I am probably dying.”
She diagnosed me with a bunch of acute viral things and sentenced me to extra time on the couch. I am not dying after all.
I am, however, having trouble dressing like a normal person.
Yesterday, when I arose from 9.5 hours of rest, the only remotely professional, style-conscious aspect of my self had been drowned out by acute sinus pressureand I resolved to be an idiot. That is, pay no attention to my screaming conscience. (Please, someone tell me you’ve had this conversation before.)
The doctor told me to relax.
She did not tell you to dress like a hobo.
Hey, hobo is in.
Smelly formless sick person is not. Step away from that sweatshirt.
You look like an oompa loompa.
I want to be comfortable . . . in case I die.
Those have holes in them. Wait – what are you doing? You are a professional!
*conscience dies of embarrassment*
And then I arrived at work, in hole-y, oversized clothing, and there was a sign noting that we, as the staff, are going to try harder to appear more professional. My conscience rose from the dead just to kick me in the head. It does not matter that I wore dress pants that one time last week. I was atrociously offending the dress code and general reputation of teachers everywhere.
Today I’m about one diaper change from totally exhausted, and my head pounds, and my lungs ache, and my throat burns, but you can bet my clothes match.