La Rosa Knows

The 10 Phases Of Being Home Sick From Work

I am a bit of a hypochondriac. So, if anyone sneezes near me, I assume I’ve got some strain of mutant cold I’ll need to go to the hospital for. Mostly, I just have a lot of internal panic, take buckets of Emergen-C, and don’t actually get sick.

However, this week the unthinkable occurred: I actually got sick. I’ve been home for two days now, and this is very close to what my life has become.

Phase 1: Put on pajamas. Or don’t. Mostly just think about putting on pants.

This is the part of the day where I wake up, slightly drowsy from all of the medication I’ve been on, and consider whether or not to put on clothes. I live alone. I have blinds in my apartment. Who cares anyway?! OK, I won’t put on pants. I’m doing it pantless.

Phase 2: Try to do some work.

This is when I sit on my couch with my computer burning a hole through my naked lap, and try to type words on the screen. But it’s slow going, and I’m starting to hallucinate, which leads to…

Phase 3: More meds.

Enough said.

Phase 4: I’m sweating profusely.

This is the part where the Tylenol does its job, kicks in, and the fever begins to break. So now I’m sweating out of every inch of skin, even though the air conditioner is on full blast. I put on extra deodorant. I drink a gallon of water to compensate for the loss of body fluid. Thank God I didn’t put on pants.

Phase 5: Nap time.

This is the very best of times. Everything is forgiven. All is right.

Phase 6: Wake up and feel refreshed.

But realize it’s now dinner time, and in a few hours I’ll need to sleep again.

Phase 7: Consider leaving the apartment.

There are pros and cons. On the one hand, I haven’t left this place for two days! I miss the feeling of actual air! But, on the other hand, leaving requires pants. And pants require work, and now I’m sweating again, just thinking about all of that.

Phase 8: Troll Facebook and Twitter

Lust after everything the healthy people are up to.

Phase 9: Order soup from that Thai place down the street.

Also, mumble under my breath as I reluctantly put pants on. Bitterly answer the door, and give an excessive tip, half out of delirium and half because I’ve unintentionally been a jerk.

Phase 10: Pray the sickness leaves my body, so I can go back to a world where I’m not sweating while eating soup and not wearing pants.

Let’s all pray for my safe return to healthy-ville soon. Shall we?

Don’t Sneeze On My Desk. Seriously.

Not gonna sugar coat it: I hate sick people. Or, more specifically, I hate it when people I work with come into the office, hover around my desk, and cough while asking how my weekend was.

For starters, that is nasty. You could cough anywhere; into a tissue, at a biodome, the Dollar Store, Michelle Obama’s belly button, an ice skating rink, the dishwasher, a Children’s Hospital, your bedroom, in a neighbor’s shower, the Pop music aisle at Target, on a butterfly, a Glamor Shots studio, on the Twister game mat, into a bag of movie popcorn, on your collectors edition copy of The Little Mermaid, at a McDonald’s drive-thru, in Italy, at the water fountain of your local park, at the pajama store, on a scooter, in the GAP, over your plate of eggs Florentine, at the public restroom where George Michael solicited sex, at the Beverly Hills Hilton across the street from that bathroom, into your own shirt, onto your pet cat “Snarfles,” or while swimming at the YMCA. The point is, I don’t give a shit where you cough, just don’t do it on my damn desk.

The reason is fairly simple, and that is that I’m a hypochondriac. And, as a result of my coworkers sniffling, sneezing, runny nosing, all around my person, I have now convinced myself that there is a breach in my immune system.

My plan is to load up on enough Vitamin C to kill a baby, or five of them, I don’t care so long as it pulverizes whatever disgusting thing that has been passed onto me.

I’m a bitter sick person, did I mention that?