You find yourself with not a lot of glasses in the cupboards; they’re by the sofa, on the table, near the desk, at your bedside, all half-full and abandoned because you forgot they were there in the first place and went to get another because you’ve already sweat out your body weight trying to find the optimal amount of blankets that will keep you from shivering so hard you fall apart. After awhile, you realize that you’ve been mimicking the little girl from Signs in your water-glass distribution, and you’re really not sure what to make of that.
You find yourself watching Signs again, because what else have you got to do?
You find yourself staring at the fridge wondering if you have the strength to actually combine the various ingredients into a proper meal, or if you’re just going to grab the first edible thing and skulk around the house in your housecoat, trailing cracker crumbs and dribbles of orange juice as you pace, pace, pace. There’s a brief moment where you consider going out for more supplies until you consider this would require both appropriate clothes and exposure to the noisy, clamorous, germ-riddled outside world. Delivery it is.
You find yourself wondering just how you’d fare amidst an alien invasion.
You find yourself rotating between the bed and the couch, between attempts at tackling the stack of projects that need tending to and wishing that all the garlic you ate would both cure you of all ailments and grant you potent superpowers. A day trip on DayQuil knocks you flat on your ass because you haven’t taken cough syrup in forever and even though they insist it’s non-drowsy you feel like you could Rip-Van-Winkel the hell out of your couch half an hour after taking an extra large gulp (which, in retrospect, may have been a mistake.) You only occasionally reach out to work to let them know you’re still right proper out-of-commission, and to the checkout clerk when you groan and grumble and hand over your debit card for the assorted scraps you managed to scrape together while you were dragging yourself down the aisles of the nearest grocery store.
And eventually, you break that fever over your leg like so much kindling, find the wherewithal to drag your carcass back to your desk at work, blink wearily at the sluggish startup screen.
Congrats, you made it through, you survived where centuries ago others would have perished and been left in the gutters of whatever medieval hamlet they called their home.
Here’s three pages worth of unread emails, two meetings you missed, and the distinct feeling that the world got on just fine without you, thanks.