I am not very good at being sick, mostly because I am not good at doing nothing. In theory, some of the trappings are appealing, like a frilly bed jacket, meals on a tray and monogrammed handkerchiefs, but in reality it's very hard to make crumpled tissues look attractive and I have not yet figured out how to get Ollie's to deliver noodle soup in anything but a paper bag.
Also, I am afraid that I will get hooked on watching daytime TV and have to subscribe to Soap Opera Digest to feed my addiction, though this has never actually happened. (I do find the regular combination of television and sunshine to be indicative of a serious character flaw, which has occasionally provoked indignation from the depressed and/or unemployed, so if this is a habit of yours that you consider meritorious, please educate me.)
However, I have certain food cravings that signal illness, traceable what my mom used to bring me in bed when I was sick: weak tea (I lose all taste for coffee), buttered toast, soft-boiled eggs and the aforementioned noodle soup, the penicillin of my people.
This post's title is, of course, taken from Guys & Dolls' memorable"Adelaide's Lament." But waiting for that little band of gold is not what's landing me in a prone position, for three reasons:
- The long-term results to date of the presence on my finger of any such band have not been all that good;
- I prefer platinum; and
- Supine suits me better.