Cold to Joy

I've always grown up assuming that I'm a pessimist, perhaps a modern day Cassandra. I'm a critical sarcastic cynic that presumes the worst in people and events. Yet, for some reason, recently I haven't really minded getting sick.

I mean, it's not that I enjoy waking up at night with snot running out onto my pillow, or that I like it when I can't talk for the amount of phlegm in my throat. I don't take pleasure in spending a day with dirty Kleenex in my pocket, coughing at my girlfriend (woot!) or wincing every time I eat something. But sometimes, I don't really mind.

I mean, there's so much good about being sick. First of all, there's the obvious pity that is lavished upon they that are diseased. While I don't normally prefer to be pitied, when such circumstances are above your control, you might as well appreciate it. Along with pity comes others willingness to take on tasks that you normally would've been more than able to do yourself - like make dinner, walk to the grocery store, or wipe your ass. Now, there's always someone willing to do that for you, because, well, you're sick.

Beyond the pity, when you engage in sickly behavior you suddenly have an excuse for anything you do that would normally be unforgivable. It's like a blank cheque for human interaction. If you get bored with the conversation, you can sneeze or wipe snot from your nose. If you are caught feigning interest you can simply say that hey, you're sick and it's hard to concentrate. You no longer have to attend class for fear of infecting others (you're clearly being selfless here), and you can "forget" to do things because you were distracted by the overwhelming pain surrounding and impounding your entire body.

Also, when you're sick you can drink lots of tea, which is always good.