Somewhere between last night at 5:30 and this morning at 9 I contracted the plague.  I couldn’t get myself off the sofa, my skin burned, and I had a fever that caused me to shake well into the night.  This morning, my throat was sore, my glands were swollen, and my head felt like I had been drinking hard liquor for several hours.  After calling my mom, she insisted I went to the doctor because “if I had an infection, it would surely get into my brain.”  Mind you, this is the woman who fears for my life during my trip to Guatemala this summer, makes me promise to not drive when there is the slightest mention of snow in the forecast, and won’t let me sleep a night alone in my apartment.  Anyway, to make her happy, I made the appointment and spent the day laying on the sofa, Facebooking (this should definitely be a verb) and sipping at blue Gatorade (the only good Gatorade, in my opinion). 

I pulled myself off the sofa, showered, and wobbled to my car to go to the doctor.  After getting semi-lost (thanks a lot, GPS), I got to the office and was entirely confused by the woman behind the tiny sliding glass window.  She had a million copies of my parents’ insurance cards and insisted I had a co-pay.  I didn’t have a dime on me, so after figuring out a billing process, I was ready to go.  Twenty minutes later I was staring at a doctor that told me I was fine, I had a virus, and I should take the rest of the week off.  Take the week off you say?  When you send the bill are you going to mail me ninety dollars and my notes from class tomorrow so I can do that without missing anything?  I didn’t think so.

So I’m going to try to choke down some solid food, figure out what’s going on for tomorrow, sit on Facebook for another ridiculous amount of time, then head to bed.