My eyes popped open to the chirping of my alarm at 6:10 this morning. I had slept all night, but my head felt like I had gone to a concert and made a slew of poor decisions afterwards.
I groggily threw my feet over the side of my bed, and tried to assess my current situation. Flu? Cold? Unforgiving combination of the two? No! I had read all the assignments that were to be discussed in my classes today, and I was determined not to miss them.
I reached in my backpack and found a bottle of Tylenol, convinced that if I could get the headache under control, I could muster the energy to sit through my classes and drive myself back home this afternoon. I slugged the pill back with a glass of water, and made my way to the shower.
Showers always seem to be the breaking point when I’m sick. It’s normally here that I realize I can barely standup straight, and I finally accept my defeat and climb back into bed. “Not today!”, I said out loud, as if hearing the words would convince myself I was feeling well enough to get out of the house. I managed to wrap a towel around my head, and made my way over to the mirror with my makeup sitting under it.
Dear God. I looked like something that had crawled into the sewer to die, only to decide to crawl back out again to get one last look at the world. My skin was so white it was almost translucent, and the bags under my eyes looked like cushions that could seat a family of eight. I let out a tiny, depressing moan, and reached for my foundation. Slowly, I painted on a normal skin colour over my face, and felt slightly better at the prospect that everyone else at school wouldn’t think I was death, coming to take them to the underworld.
I decided that if I was going to look like a normal human being, the more makeup to cover up whatever illness had decided to enter my body, the better. I got to work, taking short sit down breaks when I felt nauseous. After about 20 minutes, I looked in the mirror. It was at this point I realized I may have made an error in my judgement call about whether I was well enough to take on this day.
I looked like Boy George and Dame Edna had a lovechild. My eyebrows alone could have been framed as a work of art in an abstract museum. They didn’t so much look like eyebrows, as 2 caterpillars preforming an odd mating dance. The blush I had plastered on to give me some colour looked more like 2 bright stop signs, which was fitting, given that whomever saw me like this, would surely stop in their tracks and walk the other way.
I sighed. And then I accepted my defeat. With slightly less vigour than I used to apply my makeup, I washed my face. Then I threw on some comfy clothes, grabbed my laptop, and hopped back into bed.
So here I sit, surrounded by my school books, Netflix, and the knowledge that if I ever want to enter the clown business, I’m just a sick day away.
Hope you’re feeling better than I am,