I had to take an unexpected sick day last week. I had an eye problem that I planned to call the doctor about … eventually … but one morning, I described it to my husband and he, never the hypochondriac, urged me to see the doctor right away. So I did.
All was fine, thankfully, and the doctor was able to squeeze me in (after I kept a morning meeting, of course). But he had to dilate my eyes. I have never had my eyes dilated before, and it’s kind of trippy. For hours, everything was a little blurry, definitely expanded, and I was really unable to concentrate, write, or do very much.
So what does one do? Put one’s feet up and watch a mini-marathon of Sex and The City, of course. (Which really doesn’t hold up very well in these austere times -- remember the episode where Lexi falls out the window because her Manolos get caught in the curtain? Today she’d be wearing Easy Spirits and Candace Bergen’s highflying loft party might be a pot luck.)
Needless to say, by the time the kids came home and my eyes had shrunk back to normal size, I had had a hour-long phone meeting with my boss, prepared dinner, worked on a social studies project with my son, driven soccer carpool and spent an hour after everyone went to bed responding to a flurry of emails about a situation at work.
So much for taking a sick day.
The sick days of our youths are long gone by the time we get to be adults. No longer can we beg our mothers to let us stay home, snuggle under the covers, watch oodles of tv and eat saltine crackers because our tummies are upset. In fact, given that I have the good fortune to have pretty healthy kids, the number of times any of them have had a day like that is relatively few.