Another wedding anniversary passed and in many ways, this one was like others in our past: ridiculous. I spent the entire weekend in our queen-sized bed, tossing about in the sheets. It was exhausting, sweaty and amazing.

Don’t get ahead of yourself; I was alone. I had a high fever, a disgusting phlegm cough, and the energy of a dried-up earth worm on asphalt in the summer sun. My “come-hither” stare floated in the watery eyes of sinus run-off. And those plaid flannel pyjamas, incubating a body well past cooked, surely made for an image that can only be described as trauma-inducing.

But, for three glorious nights, I had the bed all to myself. Quarantined behind closed doors with nobody to talk to and nothing to accomplish but binge watch seasons of chick flick shows, the heavily contaminated television remote was all mine.

You see? Even when life throws you a snotty, fevered hot mess of an existence, in my home, there is always a silver-lining.

I needed one. Life has been like a game of dodgeball lately, and I feel like I’m “it.” Also worth noting, I am not an athlete and thus, an easy target to be hit with said dodgeball.

The emotional scars of this so-called sport run deep as I have flashbacks as a nine-year-old girl, the diameter of a toothpick, weighing about as much, sporting thick glasses and a Dorothy Hamill haircut and zero agility to get out of the way of a heavy ball hurling straight for my head. Lately, I feel like her again; insecure, awkward, unsure of the point of the metaphorical game we’re all playing and really tired of the cruelty of the accuracy of life’s aim.

I will spare you the dramatic details of my recent life events, because you likely wouldn’t believe me, but suffice it to say, I cannot seem to dodge the shots coming my way.

To his credit, the Carpenter was an angel. He took good care of me. His comical delivery of soup, hot tea, snacks and vital sign check-ins were matched only by his obvious horror expressed at the sight of his wife, propped up on pillows, surrounded by little balls of rolled up tissues that had yet to have been tossed in the plastic grocery bag I had tied to the nightstand, because I’m fancy like that.

Honestly, how he restrained himself from the urge to join me in that big bed is just beyond my scope, but then I sneezed a lot, so…

Even when my COVID-19 test results proved negative, that charming man of mine insisted I stay behind closed doors for two more days. Isn’t that sweet? So kind. Hours would go by without a single interruption, but I’d know he was still out there because I could hear the increased volume of his violent movies, or the running commentary of his sporting events. And the snoring.

I apologized for wrecking our anniversary, but my darling man said, “You didn’t ruin anything. It’s perfect just the way it is.” Then he kissed me on the forehead before backing up, slowly to the bedroom door. His bright eyes and disturbing smile suggested it was his favourite one yet. Huh.

In sickness and in health. Right. Cough.

WriteOut of Her Mind