For the first time in about five years, I am officially sick. The dreaded bronchial whatnot has run me down like a Mac Truck.  24 hours ago, even the thought of moving seemed like a challenge. But I managed to drag myself to work today … martyr that I am. Let’s see if I can put a positive spin on any of this …

Let’s see … I haven’t lost my appetite.  If anything, I’m eating more being sick than I typically do.  Although if I get worse, I hope I’m only one bout of stomach flu away from my goal weight. On another up note, I’m currently hopped up on so much doctor-prescribed cough syrup that my co-workers have actually gotten better looking.

Hmmm … are there any other silver linings about my touch of tuberculosis?  Hmmm … let’s see. Well, between fitful bouts of napping yesterday, I was able to catch every single commercial I’d ever produced in the Kansas City market. I had no idea Jerry Springer aired three times a day here in KC.  I thought I was delusional.

My officemate Tiffany has taken pity on me. She bought me a giant box of Kleenex and said, “Get away from me, sicko!” It’s the thought that counts.

My boss – who has zilcho bedside manner – thought I was pulling his leg. He wanted to know if I was bleeding out of both eyes and ears yet. I gently reminded him it was bronchitis, and not Ebola. Color him unimpressed.

To stave off my head cold, I’ve been reduced to drinking a lot of scotch.  Typically, I hate scotch unless mixed with hot apple cider … affectionately known as a Hot Toddy.  Enough of those mixed with medicine that says “DO NOT MIX WITH ALCOHOL” – and I’m good to go.  To bed.  For days.

And bonus … I’m now so tight with the nurse at my doctor’s office I now call her by her first initial, “J”. “J, it’s M. I need the Z-Pak stat so I don’t get the hep.” She knows exactly what I’m talking about.

All this typing has made me feel faint. I’m gonna sign off lest I should get the vapors – which, as we all know, is INFINITELY worse than what I’ve got … according to my mom.