Sick of Being Single
I’m sick. Poorly sick. The kind of sick that has me wanting to be wrapped in multiple hoodies one minute and wearing a bikini the next. Forget that. I never want to be wearing a bikini. But you know what I mean.
I’m not often ill, and I really hate it. There are tissues permanently stuffed up my nostrils, sweat is dripping from my furrowed brow, and I cannot see the sofa for the mountain of snotty tissues around me. I have reached new heights of sexiness. For once I’m actually glad that I have no dates booked for the next few days; there’s only so much make-up can achieve.
I’m not sure there is anything worse than being ill and single. My ex was amazing at looking after me when I was poorly. He did everything to make me feel better: making cups of tea / coffee, going on late night runs to the store for chocolate, foot rubs, hot water bottle top ups, blanket rearranging, laundering the bed sheets (who doesn’t feel better in clean bed linen?). I think he may even have washed my hair for me once. He was a goodun. It’s times like this that I miss him most – despite the break up being my decision. He even hugged and kissed me when my nose looked like it had done ten rounds with the cheese grater and there was every chance it would drip directly onto him.
But now, thanks to my questionable life choices, the chocolate remains a five-minute walk away at the supermarket. The bed sheets are wrinkled and dirty. And a top up of the hot water bottle requires the excavation of the tissue mountain, a wheezy trudge to the kettle, all the while gibbering under my breath about the unfairness of life, and an eventual crawl back into my blanket-fort ten minutes later, by which time the fever has switched and I’m competing with a WWE wrestler in terms of sweat production.
It’s usually at this point the dog raises his eyebrows at me and gives me a woeful stare which combines reproach with disappointment: “When are we going on a walk Mum?” Ugh.
The thought of putting one foot in front of the other for at least forty minutes whilst juggling an over-excited Setter, the lead, poop bags, tissues and lip balm (how is it possible that my nose is producing obscene amounts of unnecessary fluid, but my lips resemble the salt lake flats?) and battling the crazy wind and rain is about as appealing as wrestling a crocodile right now. And I am no Paul Hogan.
But it isn’t the dog’s fault I’m sick. He has to be walked. And because I walked away from my old life there is only me to do it. Fortunately, whilst he can’t do the laundry and his foot rubs are useless, Charlie (the Setter) is hugely empathetic and does give amazing cuddles, which is easily the best antidote. So although I am sick and single, I am not alone. He may be better at fetching sticks than cups of tea, but I’m off to find the lead.