This morning, while tucked away safely in my soft, warm bed, I was abruptly awoken by a diabolical beast looming over my face. The figure was not unlike Darth Vader, with a deep wheezing breath emanating from its figure. I blinked several times to get my bearings about me. It spoke.
"I don't feel good."
I'd never known Darth Vader to say anything along these lines, or any other beasts that's I've encountered. I rubbed my eyes. I was clearly having a dream. That's when the thing sucked in a long, deep breath, and then released a shower of mucus across my face. I'd been slimed.
Upon further examination, I realized the snot beast was none other than my son. The slime was a flu-infused declaration that he'd be staying home today and snotting everything within a ten mile radius. I'd been infected.
The first thing I did was lie him down on my husband's side of the bed, on his pillow, because I'll be damned if I'm going down alone. Sharing is caring.
The next thing I did was take Comet and scrub my face clean. Not only did I get a fantastic exfoliation, but the sink got clean in a couple of spots too. I'm nothing if not a multi-tasker.
I loaded the big guns; two diffusers filled with thieves oil, lavender, and eucalyptus. I stood over one and sucked in the mist like a starving hobo. Get in there, kill that shit! I demanded.
"What about me?!" the slimer begged.
"It'll float over there eventually, don't worry." He was already screwed. I had to save myself.
"I told you I needed a flu shot!" the snot rocket bellowed.
"I'll sing you Soft Kitty....GEEZ!" I figured if he survives this deal, he can have kids of his own and totally show me up. I don't mind coming in second or third. Or whatever.
I called my husband who NEVER gets sick. He immediately offered to come home so I could go to work. What is this I hear? A reprieve? Thank you sir, may I have another!
I skipped around like Michael Jackson at a boy scout's meeting while Captain Cooty hacked the black death all over my husband's pillow. Never had I been so happy to go to work. A part of me - the worst part - wondered if my husband would finally succumb to the plague. I doubted it, for he's been pickled and preserved for a decade or better.
I got to work early, and all was right with the world. I relished in my victory and bragged to everyone about how I never get sick. Sometime around three, a menacing sensation crept up in between my shoulder blades and into my temples. My eyesight became blurry and my face flushed red. "You don't look so good. Are you feeling alright?" my coworker asked.
I looked at him through teary eyes. "Crime doesn't pay, Albert. Crime doesn't pay."