Yet another excuse

You're not going to believe this ridiculousness. I have more excuses to remain sedentary than anyone I know. I don't have time; my ankle hurts; it's raining. My most recent one is the most unbelievable.

I have pneumonia.

I mean, come on. The lengths at which my body will go to avoid exercise are, ironically, marathon-like.

I'm writing this over a draft I started last Tuesday. I started a post about about how I avoid exercise and that my most recent excuse was an inability to breathe without getting sharp pains in my chest. I attributed it to GERD, which makes the most sense, considering my age, my lifestyle, and my eating habits. But, I never finished that post because I got too tired.

That pain in my lungs quickly transformed into exhaustion and the conviction that someone was running over my arms and legs with a steamroller. Finally, the fever hit Wednesday. By the time Groom came home from work Thursday night, I was a whimpering mess.

Let me be straight with you. I am not--I repeat not--a stoic, happy, take-care-of-myself kind of sick person. I whimper and moan and complain and feel compelled to explain in the minutest detail every single thing that is offending my body, from a stubbed toe to a mild tension headache. And I get bitchy.

On Friday, however, Groom took my whining seriously and insisted I go to the doctor. The doctor checked my vitals and immediately sent me to the emergency room where they took an x-ray, told me I have pneumonia, and sent me on my way with antibiotics (good) and Tylenol with codeine (awesome).

Oh, but first, the ER doctor asked me whether I smoke, raised his eyebrows when I said no, and asked, "Have you...ever...smoked?"

Bastard. Yes. Shut up.

He looked at my vitals and asked, "Do you have high blood pressure?"

Answer: No. His eyebrows raised higher.

"Do you have asthma?"

Answer: No. His eyebrows disappeared into his hairline.

It wasn't until he examined my x-ray that he was suddenly friendly and wasn't treating me like I was just a lazy pile of flesh taking up a bed.

It is now four days later and, after some stellar care and infinite patience from Groom Extraordinaire, the teeth-chattering chills are gone; the fever is down; I no longer feel as though someone is crushing my arms and legs; I have my appetite back; my blood pressure and heart rate are back to normal, mostly; and I am bored. I can't do much because I now have what I like to call convalescent narcolepsy, or rather, an inability to do anything for longer than an hour without passing out and sleeping for two or three hours.

"Narcolepsy" is right, right? I'm too tired to look it up. What's the one where you have sex with dead people? I don't have that. I have the sleepy one. And, wait. I don't want to hire a relative. Did I use the correct word there?

Anyway, this stupid ailment explains much of my maudlin, questioning, humorless, angry, bitchy, nostalgic mood for the past week or more. I'm happy to be back to my old self, except for the sleeping (with dead people?) and the sense that I'm trying to breathe through two saturated sponges. The good news is, if I stay on this pneumonia diet, I'll eventually hit my ideal weight.

And, let's face it, I love feeling like an ailing 18th century pre-revolutionary aristocrat, sitting in my chair wrapped in a blanket and gazing out over the field while struggling with consumption. I even have a linen handkerchief with my initials on it.