Last night I went to bed early. I didn’t feel well and after taking my temperature realized I was running a slight fever. I NEVER run a fever. My normal is 97.8 and even on my sickest days it barely rises to 98; however, last night it was up to 99.2. Not enough to be worrisome, but enough to make me feel rotten.
So I blew Studly Doright a kiss goodnight and made myself a nest in one of the guest bedrooms where I was alternately hot, then cold, then hot again for much of the night. Only after my fever broke was I able to sleep. Amazingly, this morning I felt fine.
Of course, being the hypochondriac that I am, I was certain I had contracted Covid-19, even though I never leave the house without a mask and am super careful about interactions with others.
Then Studly Doright cut his golf game short today because he didn’t feel well. I’ve seen him play eighteen holes on knees that were so bad he could barely walk from the cart to the ball, so for him to leave mid-game is telling.
After a nap and some homemade (okay, Campbell’s) chicken noodle soup, he’s feeling much better. Studly never ran a fever like me, but his stomach was rebelling.
The two of us seem to have gotten a bug of some kind. Hopefully it’s played itself out and we can get back to worrying about something else, like whether to watch college football or another episode of Dexter.