Sicko

So, I wasn't feeling good yesterday. Actually I was really sick with the stomach flu. I'm better today, thanks, but that doesn't mean I look better.

It's four o'clock in the afternoon and I have only to now notice the shirt I've worn all day is inside out and stained with Big Mac special sauce. Something it figures, I would not discover until after the public has gotten a good look at me.

I managed to brush my teeth this morning (for the sake of me as much as anyone else) --but it would seem that was all the beautifying I could muster.

Looking in the mirror (for the first time) I see my hair--which I thought was wrapped in a hair clip--actually is pulled back with the help of a plastic bread bag tie. I can't see my reflection too well though because all the light in the room is being sucked into the hole of my dark circles. I did try to put on lip gloss today but only succeeded in highlighting a genetically unfortunate mustache across my upper lip. The pushing bulge against my elastic waist sweatpants with the words 'Good Girl' across the bum, proves the 2 lbs. I lost to the toilet bowl have doubled back with a vengeance. (I don't know about yours, but my body is very thoughtful that way. . never one to starve itself.) I hang my head finally, only to see I have mismatched flip-flops on, --which wouldn't be so awful except one is mine and the other belongs to my size 14-feet son.

Certainly the toilet paper sticking out the back of my pants won me no fans.

If only sick days meant TV and honey toast all day like they did when I was a kid. I could have used a sick-note as well, pinned to my shirt as I went about my business in the community. "Please excuse Sharon" would have been all it needed to say, being rather self-explanatory.

Imagine! Here I was wondering why my dog barked 'Intruder!' every time I entered the room. And even when I'd get her to believe it was me, 'Mommy' -- she'd still growl with disgust and commence at licking clean everything she owns. I guess some sort of passive-aggressive doggy-talk, in response to my poor grooming.

My husband I am sure will be kind enough though to not blurt out in horror when he see's me - but believe me that only comes from lots of practice. He's had to suffer through the baby years, the muffin addiction years, the primary president years, and the Paula Abdul look-a-like years (those were accidentally by the way).

Oh my yes, I'd say. It takes years and years of practice for a good man to learn such reassuring phrases as "you don't look that bad, hon."

Listen, --I count my blessings anyway I can get'em.