It’s a cliché, but seriously, youth is so wasted on the young.
I can go on endlessly listing all the ways they have it better (maybe in another post), but being sick as a child is underrated. Being sick gives you unfettered license to be a brat. The slightest fever a bit of a chill, lets you stay in bed all day; free to moan and whine all you want until mom or dad (finally) fluff up your pillow.
Sick adults? I mean, real Adults with a capital “A”…well, you’re out of luck.
If you’re breathing and not hacking up your lung, then it’s a work day. You can moan and whine all you want, but it won’t get you anywhere (at least anywhere good). If mom and dad are still fluffing up your pillow…adult with a capital “A,” remember?
Being sick as a child was so much more fun. I used to enjoy getting fevers as a child. I remember having these out-of-body experiences, this lightness where I was floating above myself. It was kind of fun. It’s true: ignorance is bliss.
Now? Nope, floating is not good, especially if there’s a strange light beckoning you.
So, it you haven’t guessed. I’m sick, at least it’s in the early stages: scratchy, sore throat with an increasing annoying cough. I really hope this isn’t the flu. I didn’t get my flu shot this year. But I’ve got an arsenal of drugs…one or two of them should help, right?
Sigh, it’s a tough choice; the lightness of consciousness or the clarity of aches and pains?
Sick by Shel Silverstein
“I cannot go to school today,”
Said little Peggy Ann McKay.
“I have the measles and the mumps,
A gash, a rash and purple bumps.
My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,
I’m going blind in my right eye.
My tonsils are as big as rocks,
I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox
And there’s one more—that’s seventeen,
And don’t you think my face looks green?
My leg is cut—my eyes are blue—
It might be instamatic flu.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I’m sure that my left leg is broke—
My hip hurts when I move my chin,
My belly button’s caving in,
My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained,
My ‘pendix pains each time it rains.
My nose is cold, my toes are numb.
I have a sliver in my thumb.
My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,
I hardly whisper when I speak.
My tongue is filling up my mouth,
I think my hair is falling out.
My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,
My temperature is one-o-eight.
My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,
There is a hole inside my ear.
I have a hangnail, and my heart is—what?
What’s that? What’s that you say?
You say today is. . .Saturday?
G’bye, I’m going out to play!”