I spent last weekend in Boston visiting my sister, niece and nephew. My niece is a living doll with sumo wrestler thighs and my nephew has a tiny voice that makes any of his chatter completely endearing.
Alas, the wee rug rats were riddled with germs, and I returned to a doozy of a virus that has left me flattened, barf bucket by the bedside.
“Remember that I always loved you,” I’d croak tragically from the bed when The Sweetie would check on me.
“Can I get you anything?” He’d ask, his mouth covered protectively, keeping a safe distance away from my toxic germs.
“Just a gun. I’m ready to go,” I’d whisper.
“In that case can I eat your Cadbury’s chocolate egg?” He asked.
I am slowly mending, although when I do a mental inventory of food groups, most still make my stomach churn. Not the long gone Cadbury’s egg, though. I feel pretty confident that I could stomach some therapeutic chocolate. It is disconcerting for someone like me to want to shun food. Sadly, I checked the scale and my suffering hasn’t yielded a smidgen of weight loss. Sometimes there is no justice.