SodaBoy has been sick the last few days, with a bad cold that is migrating from head to chest. In the last three days he hasn’t strayed from bed except to the couch. This has meant even more television than usual. Now, I’ve been sick and I understand that it’s no fun. I was prone to strep as a youth, and fairly susceptible to bronchitis as well, and I even had scarlet fever once. The only childhood illness I missed out on was chickenpox, mysteriously enough.
[I had one reddish spot at the same time my sister had chickenpox, but other than that, none of the normal symptoms. This will frighten me if I think about it too much, as I don’t want to get it as an adult and end up with shingles. Adult onset chickenpox is clearly a foolish thing to fret about, though. My grandfather had the pox twice, once as a child and then again as an adult. There are no guarantees with immunity.]
Even reading can be too much of a strain when you feel like crap. Intellectually, I know that; I remember it from my own past suffering. And, yet... despite knowing all that, I’m still struggling to suppress my resentment about the constant television chatter. It’s driving me bonkers! There is no escape. Frankly, it is the biggest disappointment of home ownership. Living in apartments for years, I constantly fantasized about having a house and being able to get away from the idiot box. But it’s not really possible. I can hear it jabbering from every.single.room in the house, even the basement.
As a kid, I could read through anything and everything. I would carry books to the grocery store and read while Mom shopped. I would happily read away while Dad watched television. Not a problem. I never saw Star Wars until I went to college, because when it came on cable and Dad watched it? Yeah, I was busy reading. Somewhere along the way, I mostly lost that skill. I’m much more easily distracted as an adult. And reading? Reading is easy compared to writing.
Unless I want to end up with drivel like this.