About two weeks ago, I found myself battling a moderately annoying cold. It’s the first time I’ve been sick since last May and my recent boasting to my coworkers about my superior immune system is probably what did it. Honestly though, I had managed to maintain health through winter, an office-wide nasal-dripping plague and my friend’s 3-year-old blowing her nose in my hair. Who wouldn’t feel invincible?
But I finally succumbed to a sore throat, horrific coughing and a voice change that rivaled a pre-pubescent boy. I couldn’t even be blessed with sexy, deep cold voice! I decided to let myself rest and stayed home from work curled up on my couch, with my Hello Kitty thermometer and five boxes of Kleenex.
When it was time to feed my cold I went to the fridge and remembered I was also suffering from a rampant case of “single person’s fridge.” The contents included beer, sriracha, an apple and pickles. I considered, briefly, eating the sriracha by the spoonful and then realized I might just be adding gastric upset to my symptoms, so I ventured out to spread my germs to the good people at the drug store and the Thai restaurant by my house.
And if you’re ever wondering, Thai food is a great expectorant.
This little journey wasn’t particularly interesting, but it reminded me of times when I have been too sick to move and there was no one there to save me from eating hot sauce on pickles. And this is the peril of being single: there’s really no one there for you when you’re sick and alone. As annoying as living with someone can be, it would have been nice to say, “I know I’m sweaty and I look disgusting, but because you care about me when I’m healthy, please go get me some real tissue so I can stop carrying around this roll of toilet paper.”
Or something like that.
Of course, then I started pondering things like how long it would take people to find me if I were to slip and fall in the shower. My estimate is at least three days if I fell on a Friday. So my hyperactive imagination has given me a mild fear of weekend showering. I’m investing in a bath mat.
Lesson learned: At the first sign of sickness, stock the fridge.
Recently, I’ve heard about several rather heinous people finding themselves in relationships. One of these people being a Jersey-dwelling “celebrity” that, despite my best efforts, I somehow still know about.
My friends constantly tell me that I “can’t” be jealous of these relationships because A) the guys are probably gross, and B) I could be in a pointless relationship if I chose to be, but I didn’t want to settle.
This response only pisses me off.
It’s true, I don’t want these guys. Some of the women I know who manage to find themselves in relationships are horrible human beings. And any guy who is looking for verbal abuse and being subjected to hours shoe shopping wouldn’t pair well with me anyway. (I shoe shop a lot, I just prefer the company of women for that.)
It’s also true that if I wanted to still be in a relationship with a perpetually-stoned baby hater or an unemployed, blind albino, I would be. I didn’t settle because frankly, I would rather be alone than be in a relationship that’s miserable. These guys were clearly not right for me.
The crux of the matter is that it’s just plain unfair. You can do everything right and think you’re with the right person, but it’s the braindead orange monsters who end up walking down the aisle.
While I am by no means under the delusion that life is fair, it would be nice to see the snarling bitch from my past fall face first into a wedding cake. Maybe, just for once, things could even out.
Lesson learned: Nice guys may finish last, but so do nice girls.