A Letter to My Beloved Husband
With Valentine's Day fast approaching, I am touched that you have already decided to give me a gift. However, in a very loving sort of spirit, I feel compelled to share some gentle suggestions with you regarding the choosing and giving of such gifts:
1. Flowers, good. Virus, bad.
2. Chocolate, good (disregard any protests on my part that involve threatening to tape the chocolate directly to my ass in the first place and thus avoid the middle man--I don't really mean it). Fever, bad.
3. Yarn, VERY good. Hacking cough, bad.
4. Books, especially those with patterns, good. Heavy sinus congestion, bad.
5. Lingerie, okay if it generally covers most of the parts I choose not to admit are present. Sore throat, bad.
6. Dinner out, good. Copious amounts of snot, bad.
7. Jewelry, good. Body aches, bad.
8. Music by my favorite artists, good. Desperate desire to feel well enough to say that I feel like crap, really bad.
9. Massage, excellent. Jungle drums playing vigorously in my head every time I attempt to bend down, bad.
10. Cleaning the bathroom for me, truly good. Raw, red, kleenex-abraded nose, quite bad.
I know, dear Husband, that you enjoyed this virus greatly yourself over the past week and I truly do appreciate your desire to share it with me. However, it would be safe to say that I'm not enjoying it nearly as much as you seem to have thought that I might. For one thing, dissecting cow lungs in Biology class just isn't quite as pleasant when one is already nauseated from the constant drip of unspeakable things down the aforementioned sore throat. (For your edification: should you ever find yourself leaning over a pair of cow lungs that are...shall we say...ripe? Yes. Should you find yourself in that position and you feel your nose starting to run, step away from the smelly animal parts BEFORE you sniff deeply. Just trust me.)
Additionally, it was a tad bit concerning to stumble into school today with glassy eyes and a head stuff full of something that feels much like cotton, only to find that I was going to be required to carefully pour hydrochloric acid from one tiny container into another. And the second container contained magnesium that was going to react violently. And the two containers appeared, through red, watery eyes, to be four or six. And I kept sneezing. Violently.
I don't want to appear ungrateful. I'm glad you thought of me, really. It was especially thoughtful, I think, for you to snore so loudly all last week that I got truly sleep-deprived, thus providing an excellent vessel in which the virus could thrive. Not all husbands would go the extra mile like that. Believe me, I know how lucky I am.
My only reason for writing is to point out, gently of course, that bookstores are not so bad to shop in, and yarn stores give gift certificates, and well, next year consider anything else. I'll take a rock from the yard, if need be. Really. This sort of involved and well-thought out gift of heavy viral load is unnecessary between people who love one another as much as we do. You needn't attempt to make my head explode to prove it.
I'm going to go huddle miserably under a blanket now, just to further show my appreciation for your generousity. You are a husband in a million.
p.s. I'd sleep with one eye open tonight if I were you.