Big cough little sniff little cough little sniff Big cough Big Sniff

When I was little, getting sick meant chicken noodle soup and Sprite. A few "Please, mommy"s and well-placed pitiful (just enough to be pathetic, but not enough to warrant a trip to the doctor's) coughs, and I was sitting on the couch, surrounded by blankets and stuffed animals while I watched Eureka's Castle.

Keep in mind that I almost never did (or do) get sick, so it took me a while to figure this out. And for the first few years of my elementary school career, I got "Perfect Attendance" awards. Somehow I figured out that as great as these plastic and ribbon medals were, it was so much more awesome to stay home (although probably not for my mom who would have to stay home from work).

Once I got older and could stay home by myself, it was a little harder to put one past my mom. I would run the thermometer under hot water, pretend I'd thrown up, almost anything for that one day of respite from the oh-so-grueling-and-demanding high school.

My freshman year of college, I was so convinced that I was invincible to getting sick (oh, the naivety of youth) that I tried to get sick. Wading in the Provo River in the winter, wet hair in the cold air, etc.

But now I'm sick and there's no one to take care of me and make me soup and my throat hurts and I'm sad.