Well, we dodged it all week, and it finally hit us today. The entire Bradshaw family is a sniffling, coughing, wheezing mess. When I get sick, my first stage is denial. I refuse to take meds. I keep going to work and doing all my household chores. I think I can shake it off. I think I can "gut it."
But once I accept that I really am sick, I am the most pitiful sick person that you will ever meet. I whine and moan and toss and turn. I let out small, pitiful noises during the night so that Brian will be sure to know I feel like crap and feel sorry for poor, pitiful little me. I'm surprised that he doesn't smother me with the pillow.
However, I do feel better now than I did this morning, so I am hopeful.
I was planning on getting my tattoo today. But then I had a horrible, horrible week. And then I got sick. And I began to get the feeling that not only should I avoid being poked with sharp needles today (I much preferred lying on the couch wrapped up in a fluffy blanket, sipping hot tea), but that I should probably not even leave my house. When the universe speaks to you, you should listen.
So today, I listened to the universe and stayed home. Out of the cold. Out of the rain. Away from needles and some potential, horrible, flesh-eating infection. (Which I am SURE I would have contracted, had I had my tattoo done today. That's just the kind of week I've had.)
I am positive that I'm the better for it.