This dreary, ghosts of winter day has got me thinking. Spring this year, thus
far, is a bit like me this year, thus far. Many still consider me a ‘spring
chicken’ of sorts, but I assure you that lying here, swathed in the dregs of
flu, my thirty-three years of spring chicken has found me a little less chickeny
lately and a lot more old-farm-hen. My chicklet feathers are not quite so
downy, my fluffy tail is not quite so pert and my cute little baby hen claws
have developed the ability to not so much tickle
adorably as tear the rooster a new one. I don't like being sick one bit, and so, what did I do? Deny deny deny.
I have realized that
no matter how far from the chicken facade we come, we will always need a Mother Hen, even if that mommy is your own self (or Husband) looking out for you.
Being sick in your 30’s is a great way to slap you up side the head and say
‘Grow up! You’re an adult now, act like one!’
You see, I did not act like an adult
at all preceding my demise. Because sick isn't something that happens to me, sick is what happens to other people; People who don't live a balanced lifestyle; People who work too hard, people who don't look after their bodies or eat healthily; People who are too stressed, too tired - not me! I live my life-party on a daily basis, complete with mood-enhancing heels and matching sparkly dress, and the flu monkeys are not on the guest list. But now, the result is this horrible virus confining me to
the gloomy dust-ruffles of my bed, and those flu monkeys are throwing their own party in my head!
I was feeling a ‘bit’ under the weather a
few weeks ago, but not too bad. Not ‘too bad’ to simply deal with it the way I
used to back in the day when I would pop a sinutab and drink a sugar free red
bull and be ready to go again. Not ‘too bad’, to stop me from getting up and
doing my CrossFit avidly and enthusiastically, and laughing off Husband’s heed
when he warned me of all the germs going round like last seasons shoes at a half-off sale. Not ‘too bad’ to stop me from going off to teach my piano students, having after-work drinks, going out every night in the week,
staying out way past my bedtime with a friend visiting from the UK, staying up
all hours with Husband even when I was at home, never saying no to any offered
event, taking myself with Husband fishing and wading in the ice cold
mountain water, and walking around at home with no shoes or socks on, even
though my feet were cold. The little voice in my head (my Mother, or perhaps inner mother hen) kept saying
‘Your feet are cold! You‘re going to get sick. Your head is sore! You should be
in bed. Your ears are hurting from being in this loud place! Your lungs are
hurting from being in this smoky place! You should not be here!’ But did I
listen? Of course not. No, the spring chicken in me thought she could handle
this snivel, this mere head cold that it surely was.
But as it turns out I could not. Perhaps
when I actually was a spring chicken
I could, but not anymore. Two rounds of anti-biotics, a course of cortisone and
one big fat needle injection later, I have finally succumbed to the flu, and
the voice in my head simultaneously. So yes Mom, you were right after all. I am
staying in bed, allowing Husband to look after me in his sweet way. And the only spring chicken in my immediate future is the one
in my soup.
Love, lust and fairy-star-dust
Cherry Blossom
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