Of the imaginary kind.
It didn't stop me from staying up all night.
I mean, clearly I have already established that I am not the best of sleepers anyway, and the pandemic has not helped that cause. Unfortunately, neither has deep breathing exercises, melatonin, wine, no wine, exercise, no exercise, Tylenol PM, or something called "Sleep Fairy." Part-time fairy at best, I'm telling you.
Anyway. So Sunday night I'm in bed, and my brain does the following mental rumba.
"Is your stomach upset?"
"Are you going to throw up?"
"Diarrhea? Are you sure?"
"I think you have a headache coming on."
"Is your throat sore?"
"It might be."
"You're burning up."
(I was hot)
"Maybe its a fever."
"You are supposed to go to the dentist. You will have to cancel."
"You have people coming into town. They are staying a week. They can't come if you have a fever. You need to tell them. They need to cancel their vacation. Their vacation will be ruined and it will be your fault."
"It might be Covid."
"Where did you get Covid?"
"Did you touch your eyes when you went to Costco?"
"Did you leave your window down at a stoplight right next to another car?"
"Where have you been?"
(Nowhere. Well, Costco. And the dentist. And I got a massage but she was wearing a mask and I was wearing a mask. The whole time. And I was face down!)
"Your selfish massage got you Covid and ruined everyone's good time."
"Your feet are burning up. You are shooting fireballs out of your feet! The sheets are going to catch on fire."
(Ok, maybe we are getting a little extreme here?)
It wasn't Covid. It wasn't a fever (I checked.) I did not have a sore throat. The sheets did not burn off the bed. I did not throw up, although there might have been some side effects from cruciferous vegetables and lentils.
I did apparently, have a temporary but raging case...of hypochondria.