I'm sick. It all started with a tickle in my throat Wednesday evening. Then, just like the body snatcher invaders took over, I woke up Thursday feeling not like myself. My head was too heavy to lift off the pillow. My chest felt as if Fat Albert had parked his fat ass right on my sternum and wasn't getting up. I was sweating out my sheets but not in a good way. So I did want any normal 31 year old woman would do. I called my mother.

In a matter of hours I had homemade chicken noodle soup and was wrapped in my blankie with a refrigerator stocked with an abundance of Vitamin C - orange juice, ruby red grapefruits, and navel oranges. What is it about being sick that forces us to revert back to childhood? The days when your mother called out for you and you spent the days camped on the couch watching cartoons. The days when she would cut the crust off your sandwiches and crush the Tylenol into a spoonful of orange juice.

I guess it pretty goes without saying that I'm a big baby when I'm sick. I cry, I whine, I sleep. I pout, I frown, I sleep. And it should also goes without saying, that I am so over being sick. I want my life back. I want to continue the momentum I was building on New Years to get stuff accomplished. I want to put on real clothes and eat real food. I want to see people not on my television. I want to leave the house. But until all of that can happen, I gotta get back under my blankie.