I don’t know how it is in your household, but in mine, there’s a WORLD of difference between when I get sick and when my husband gets sick. We’re talking night and day contrast, people. You see, he turns into a 30-something-year-old baby when he’s under the weather, whereas I must continue with life as normal, sniffles and aches, be gone!
It was just last week when my other half came home and dramatically announced to the family that he had come down with my son's cold. He then proceeded to collapse onto the living room sofa and pass out for the next TWELVEFREAKINGHOURS. Meanwhile, the dog had chewed up Stinker’s new sandals (AGAIN!!!) and my kindergartner was having a four-alarm, no holds-barred meltdown over a homework assignment. The next town over could’ve heard all the commotion, yet, miraculously, Rip Van Winkle managed to sleep his way through the entire three-ring circus! Seriously, WTH, dude?! How do you NOT hear all those wails and shrieks?!
And even though I promised myself that I would absolutely, under no circumstances come down with the same ailment, I, too, eventually caught the stupid germs and achoo’d my way through the entire weekend. However, I still had to do laundry, go to the grocery store, and host a monthly book club meeting. Ya see, the show must go on even when Mama’s feeling like poo. Injustice anyone?