Being sick means not having to say you’re sorry. It means the excuse to avoid human contact. Being sick means everything in your life is put on the backburner. Being sick means you are the pope, the sultan, the queen of England who glances down from atop her tower of pillows, tissues, and empty soup bowls. Being sick means you are the victim and therefore in control of the world.
This morning I got up and I was sick. I made a few unattractive noises and rolled out of bed. Greeted by cheerful ‘good mornings’ of my roommates, I grunted in response, wearily heading towards the bathroom. On the way back, I grunted some more. I’m sick, grunt.
Then they got it. Then they understood. I had triumphantly acquired the ‘get out of jail free’ card. I could be a raving lunatic as long as I interspersed coughs within my speech. Gone all guilt of thinking of my computer as my best friend. Gone all guilt of building up my taciturn walls. I was sick. I had never been freer.
Being sick means an excuse to disappear, be irresponsible, flake out on things I said I’d be at that now, come to fact, I didn’t want to do anymore. Being sick is a doorway to truth. Being sick means being able to insult my closest friends and still keep them close. Being sick gives me the magical ability to be eight again, my health and welfare entirely in the hands of my mother. I gain whiny vocal expressions I didn’t know I possessed.
On Saturday, one of the most beautiful days of the year thus far, I called my aunt. I told her I was sick and since she was sick, we should be sick together. We holed up together, burrowed under blankets, and drowned ourselves in tea, soup, and Diet Coke. We scowled at the bikers and the kids playing outdoors. Lucky jerks, we snarled. We watched Charles and Camilla’s wedding reception on BBC America. I laughed at my aunt for wanting to watch it and she scratched her face deliberately with her middle finger. It was okay, because then I wiggled my fingers and told her to tell me when to stop. She said stop. Only my middle finger was left up. Being sick means being mean. It’s funny when you’re sick and mean.
We went grocery shopping for sick food. Being sick means being able to throw whatever you want into the grocery cart because there is so little that sounds appealing to you that your mother is happy that you’ll eat so you don’t just waste away. You can buy packaged fruits because you’re too sick to cut them up. You can buy ice cream because you say it will make your throat feel better. You can also leave your grocery cart in the middle of the aisle because you are sick and everybody is in your way and they deserve it.
Being sick means everybody gets in your way, just to spite you. Being sick means having people tell you that you look sick or death wormed over. Then you thank them sarcastically. Being sick means you can use your sarcasm to your most potent of abilities. Being sick means always having a conversation starter.
Most of all, being sick means appreciating the sun and your snot-free nose and your tickle-free throat when one morning you finally get out of bed and realize that the room is not spinning and that everybody is just really happy that you’re better.
Probably because they hated you sick.
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