All day yesterday I was convinced I was suffering from allergies. After my fifth mid-meeting sneeze my boss asked if I had a cold. I told her about how we vacuumed and cleaned the blades on our ceiling fans and how it must be allergies from all the dust. She nodded as if it all made perfect sense. My husband on the other hand laughed at me. He says I have a cold. He says our children are walking petri dishes. He says we are doomed to live a disease infested life for at least another few years. I said I'm not sure I can handle being sick again so soon. He says he knows for a fact he can't handle me being sick again so soon.
My husband's chief complaint when I am ill is not the sad pile of dishes in the sink or all the toys on the floor. I think it's all the announcements of my imminent death that wear on him. That and I don't like to get up.
Last night he mentioned that I've developed the habit of not taking care of myself when I'm sick. This was his way of saying I might have felt better earlier in the evening if I'd bothered to get off my lazy butt and locate some cold medication. But I still thought I had allergies at that point. He hadn't diagnosed me as an idiot yet. So it really wasn't my fault. And then I pointed out that I have to locate medication for him when he's sick too. And then I have to talk him into taking it because he likes to pretend he's He-Man and can just tough it out. I got my medication shortly thereafter. But he ended up being right. I felt a lot better. So much better that at one point in the night I convinced myself that the allergies had gone away and I had been right about them all along. Only then I remembered the medication I took.
The allergies are clearly affecting my memory.