Domestic Life

This weekend I got marvelously, dramatically sick. While this is not fun under the best of circumstances, it is considerably less fun when you are temporarily staying with your boyfriend and trying to appear sexy while nauseous. Since the roommate was gone for the weekend, I feverishly decided to put on my pink Barbie doll-esque underwear and lie on the sofa, sneezing and shivering. It did not occur to me that this was less sexy than it was bizarre.

By Sunday I had abandoned all attempts to look even mildly attractive and had made a fort of tissues and Vitamin C drops on the sofa. I lay there in Re-Boyfriend’s blue plaid pajama bottoms and white cotton undershirt, as Re-Boyfriend occasionally patted my thigh and made "helpful" suggestions.

“Hey baby, why don’t you go wash your face?” he said, sensing that showering would be too much to ask. “That’ll make you feel better.”

I thought the logic behind the healing powers of facial cleanliness to be dubious at best, but the next time my bladder forced me into the bathroom, I dutifully opened my face wash and went through the necessary motions before returning to the fetal position in front of the television.

About fifteen minutes later Re-Boyfriend prodded me with his foot.

“Hey, seriously, why don’t you wash your face?”

I looked up at him resentfully.

“I did wash my face,” I told him. “This is just what I look like right now.”

Plan A having failed, Re-Boyfriend moved on.

“Well, I’m going to go downstairs and get myself some breakfast, and bring you back all sorts of stuff that will make you feel better,” he told me. "I promise. Doesn't that sound good?" It did. His somewhat condescending/cooing tone was oddly comforting in my delirious state, though I suspected he was not so much trying to take care of me as attempting to make me feel better for his own selfish reasons, ie. having a fun little friend to go to Central Park with.

"Do you want anything in particular?" Re-Boyfriend asked.

“Ooooo...Fruit Punch Gatorade.”

He returned ten minutes later holding out a package of Benadryl.

“But I don’t have allergies,” I told him, confused and wondering where the hell my Gatorade was.

“Yes you do," he answered matter-of-factly. "Come on, you know you’re not really sick.”

Was he serious? I had no response besides the death glare.

“CB, just take it. Just take one.” Pause. “Just take half of one, it'll make you feel better.”

“Benadryl makes me sleep for days,” I informed him from my prone position on the couch. “And I do not have allergies. I am sick. I really hope you catch whatever I have so I can sit by smugly while you vomit and tell you that you have allergies and --”

“I got you Gatorade too,” he interrupted, holding the bottle out like a desperate peace offering.

Somewhat mollified, I thanked him before retiring to his bedroom, where I spent the rest of Labor Day weekend staring wistfully out the window and trying to convince myself to eat. I was periodically interrupted by Re-Boyfriend opening the door to kiss my forehead and ask if I thought going to dinner/a bar/the park would make me feel better. Each time my orgy of self-pity and sweaty sleep was interrupted, I responded with less kindness (“No, no…I think I have to stay here. Thank you though.”) and a growing snappishness that even the forehead kiss could not completely stave off, (“I. Am. Sick. I am NOT going to be fucking FUN. Just go somewhere WITHOUT ME.”)

I had hoped this weekend would feature me in my underwear cavorting about with a wine bottle in hand, cooking pasta and having sex on the sofa. Instead I seem to have unintentionally painted a more accurate picture of domestic life, with little sex or speaking. Perhaps it is for the best. If we ever live together in a more permanent fashion, we can only be pleasantly surprised.