As one would expect after being cooped up with germy teenagers for days on end, I have developed an illness.
Rather than an ordinary cold, this one had fun novel symptoms like blurry vision and my throat swelling nearly shut. By Thursday I dismissed it from being the bronchitis Rachel was battling because
sibling rivalry never dies I hadn’t seen Rachel in a while and instead concluded that it was probably strep throat.
When I looked up the symptoms of strep throat on line; you know, for the fun of it; I discovered that some strains of strep throat can cause a rash on the neck and chest. And do you know what that rash is? Scarlet fever!
Hot diggety. I’m far more interested in being sick if I have a chance of getting one of the most poetical diseases. When it comes to literary illness, scarlet fever is right up there with consumption (if you’re dying) and cholera (if everyone else around you is dying). If I have to miss a day of work and be little more than a lump on a log for my parents’ weekend visit, at least it’s for a poetical disease. I crawled into bed late Thursday night after a field trip, imagining somewhat-feverishly how much more awesome I be if I went blind like Mary Ingalls. Yes, she used her blindness to help her teach blind students, but my blindness would also have been caused by students! Martyrdom win!
But then I check my newsfeed this morning and discovered that modern research is messing with my childhood again.
While a decrease in my overall odds of going blind is probably a good thing, it did make my illness a little harder to bear. Ah well. At least it killed Beth. I still have that going for me.
Plus this illness makes my voice sound like Eartha Kitt in my ears. And that’s nothing to sneeze at either.
Do you know what it’s like to kissssss such smoldering lipssssss?
Do you want to find ow-out?