I can’t remember how long it’s been since I called in sick to work. The circumstances have to be pretty extreme, since I enjoy the day to day of my job. But yesterday was one of those rare occasions.

I knew I was coming down with something when I got home from work on Tuesday. I tried to nip it in the bud by going to bed ridiculously early (like 7), in the hopes that I’d sleep off what was ailing me. But it was to no avail: I woke up on Wednesday feeling twice as crappy.

Through the congestion and throbbing sinus pressure, I somehow managed to dial the phone to call Jeff and plead his forgiveness. I’m not sure how he managed to translate my admittedly garbled message, but given the fact that I still have a job today, I guess he did.

After leaving said message, I dipped into the store of decongestants which I – chronic allergy sufferer that I am – keep handy, and promptly went back to sleep.

My sickness-addled brain, aided by the dose of pseudoephedrine, went through a somersault of bizarre dreams and half-dreams until it settled on one pulled from the far reaches of my memory.

It was the ghost of a sick day past, circa sixth grade. In those days, strep throat and I had something of an ongoing relationship. I’d come down with it like clockwork once a year.

Oh, it would try to sneak up on me. The fever would come first, while the sore throat waited in the wings for the perfect time to strike. And when it did, I’d usually be out of school for a solid week.

And what a week it would be. My mom always took such good care of me. I’d get to sleep on the couch, and she’d bring me tea and toast, or scrambled eggs. She’d also make sure I took my medicine on time, keep me well hydrated, monitor my temperature, replenish my tissue supply as needed and all that good stuff.

My job would be to nap. The rest of the time, I’d either read or watch movies. If I hadn’t actually been horribly ill through the whole thing, I might even have enjoyed it.

But “enjoy” really isn’t in the cards when you’re spiking a fever, your throat is so sore you can barely swallow, your whole body hurts from coughing and your head feels like it weighs roughly the equivalent of a baby elephant. A feverish, baby elephant, balanced precariously on your scrawny, aching little neck like it was one of those circus balls.

I don’t know about you, but that’s not my definition of a good time.