About this time yesterday morning, I had a dilemma. It was obvious that I was really sick, and I just didn't want to go to work.
Y'all have no idea how weird this is for compulsive me. In my entire 2 years at my pervious job, I took a grand total of half a sick day. I literally damaged my ears in college by ignoring ear infections so I could keep working.
My last boss had a weird thing about punishing people who took sick days and being mad at said people. She spent my half sick day painstaking compiling my to do list for the next two months. (I assume that in doing so, she was looking for evidence that I was falling behind on my work, which I wasn't. But I suppose she felt one never knew what to expect from the sort of person who took sick days.)
I recalled that my boss at my new job tends to wash her hands frequently and spray things with lysol. This person will be OK with someone actually using a sick day, methinks. So I called in and left her a message, feeling very strange doing so.
For years and years, I thought that if I were going to be miserable, I might as well be miserable at work. And my illnesses dragged on and on for a week or two.
Yesterday, I stayed in bed. I read a lot, I watched several episodes of Law and Order: Special Victims Unit and I designed the invitation for the baby shower I'm throwing in July. Recalling Patrick Stewart's pronouncement in Star Trek:The Next Generation that in the 24th century, the best medicine they have for the common cold is Earl Grey and rest, I drank like five cups of Earl Grey.
We went out for dinner for my mother's birthday and I did do that, but otherwise, I did my best to remain dormant.
And I really do feel a lot better. I'm a little stuffed up and my throat is a little sore, but I feel a good 85 percent of my usual self.
There could be something to this taking care of oneself thing.