Our household has come down with a case of the sickness and I’m personally affronted by the fact it’s penetrated the force field of my annual flu-jab. Rude.
As a result of this I do get to do my favourite ever thing without guilt though: nest. So I’ve got a whole weekend planned, reruns of Broad City, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk with Me, a re-watch of Mandy, good food (or whatever I can afford the weekend before Pay Day) and watching the gerbils fuck about in their natural habitat. Glynn is sick too of course and he’ll be feeling it far worse than this guy (because he’s a man) but I’m looking forward to being curled up in our dressing gowns together all weekend. Sue me.
I’ve always been a homebody. Someone way more comfortable in my own environment than anywhere else. Over the years I’ve got much better at being out and about socially but if given a choice I would always be more inclined to stay in. I like being cosy and comfortable, I like my own shows and my sofa, on which I keep all the things I could ever possibly need (face wipes, notebook, giant tub of Vaseline).
I like my husband even when he’s being annoying and I like his company, although we definitely don’t live in each other’s pockets. If he’s gaming, I’ll be in the bath or in the bedroom, reading usually. If I’m chilling and Netflixxing (with myself), he’ll be in the bedroom reading too. It’s a perfect kind of harmony really and always reminds me of a line in Chicago’s Cell Block Tango:
“He’d go to work, he’d come home, I’d mix him a drink, We’d have dinner. Well, it was like heaven in two and a half rooms.” ~ Annie (SIX)
Obviously (hopefully) without the bigamy. What I’m trying to say is I’m content. I think we both are – and sometimes I actually embrace being sick. It feels like a chance to slow down a bit and just be, to give the body what it desperately craves (no, Christa, not 16 Cadbury’s Creme Eggs) – I can’t wait.