Calling In

I've decided working at a school, when your man works at another school, exposes the body to a plethora of nasty viruses. Mini-menopause bowed out just in time for some sort of flu, apparently.

Thanks, mini-menopause. Thanks, immune system. You guys are great.

This is day three of fleece pullovers and spending 95% of my waking time huddled under a blanket on the couch with a space heater pointed at me, even though it's been in the upper 60's. I'll have to venture off my sick island this evening to go to the gallery and work, however--no sick days there and my boss led me to believe it's been hectic when I called in yesterday.

I am a nerd and get anxious when I have to call in sick. It's a mentally painful process. Calling in sick generally involves a ridiculous effort to get up and go to work anyway, struggling through a shower, then getting back in bed. Next? Agonizing for a stupid amount of time over whether or not I should call in, what will I miss if I call in, was there a meeting today?! and worrying that my boss will think I'm faking it. Etc.

Etc.

This agonizing includes several tormented glances at the clock, thinking things like "Okay I have to decide in the next five minutes." "Okay, am I going to call in or not? DECIDE NOW." "Oh crap if I start getting ready now I won't have time to pack a lunch/get gas/iron that skirt." "It is really getting late." "OH GEEZ, I GUESS I'M CALLING IN."

Finally, there is the heart-thumpingly panic-stricken moment when I dial the number, hoping I actually sound sick when my boss answers.

Lame.

Lame!

In other but slightly related news, Justin brought me some little individual orange juice cartons yesterday. Each comes with its own straw.

An EXPANDABLE straw.

You're so jealous.

Of my straw!