Two weeks ago, I was sick.
This, for me, is a rare occurrence. I take my health, fitness, and diet very seriously, and am also just naturally blessed with an ironclad constitution.
As a result, the minor aches, coughs, and sniffles that many people suffer every other month do not afflict me. I don’t even really get monthly menstrual cramps.
What I do get is one major illness every year to year-and-a-half that takes me down for about a week despite my prideful efforts to fight it.
That’s what this recent illness was: it started off as a sore throat, quickly progressed to a hacking cough, and before I could say, “I’m fine,” I had a full-blown head cold complete with cement-filled sinuses, pounding temples, aching neck, shoulders, back and abs from coughing, throat scratched raw from the same, tiredness, weakness, and about as much air capacity in my lungs as if I were breathing through a straw, particularly when trying to lie in bed.
I was not fine.
And the thing that hurt the most was my ego in having to admit to my malady.
It was a low moment. So low, in fact, my body became a metaphor for my mental state: bypassing my bed entirely, I spread a blanket on my living room floor, brought my laptop down with me, and searched for something to watch on YouTube to distract me from my misery.
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