Docks, sails, lobsters, linen pants. Fires on the beach. Parties. Adultery. This is what summer vacation is about in all of the books I love.
Covid. Benadryl. Kleenex. Staying behind when everybody else goes to the Safari Park. This is what my summer vacation was about. Not one person at any of the airports we were in wore a mask. I didn’t, either, because don’t we all want to live in a post-pandemic world?
It began with a slight rough feeling in my larynx area. I tried to ignore it. By the evening, it was worse. Then came the chills followed by hotness. This was followed by eye rolls from the rest of the group, who witnessed my covid at the last family vacation. But by the next morning, I had given it to everybody, and they all had coughs but proclaimed that “it’s just a cold.”
I knew better, but since I was the only one getting worse, I let it go. There weren’t any tests around. None of the others seemed upset, despite the fact that I had become a super spreader. They just coughed and left for the golf course.
The end of the trip came, and everybody went home. Not us. We had to move to a hotel and change our flights home so I could be even sicker. We have been home now for five days. We both tested positive when we got back. However, my husband was hale and hearty enough to go golfing, but I have been in the same pajamas for the five days since we got here. The world goes on, but for some reason, my covid is sticking around.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I will get up, take a shower, put actual clothes on, and accomplish something, even if it is to stay upright until after lunch.
Mask up, comrades!
