Lying in my deathbed today; sweaty yet cold as shit, smelling like “sick,” with a body ache so crucial I could barely put my pants back on after taking a piss, I received 3 text messages, one from my mom, one from a cute guy, and one from my homey. All 3 were asking if I was OK and needed anything. Soup? Medicine? OJ? All of the above please.
I changed into a new shirt since the one I was wearing was drenched with sweat as if I had just got out of Bikram, and thought about it for a second. My initial reaction was to hit back moms, ‘cuz you know, that’s what mothers do. But then I remembered the last, “Abigail you need to take better care of yourself and stop going out and start taking your vitamins. Do you wear a jacket when you go out? Are you eating apples everyday? You know you have a history of bronchitis right? Stop sleeping so late. When’s the last time you had a check-up? Sige, lagot ka!” lecture I got when she dropped me off some arroz caldo, and quickly replied back to the homey instead.
Whatever the deal was, I knew that there was no way in hell I was gonna let the cute guy drop me off some C-Monster and chicken noodle soup. And NOT because I liked him enough to care about what I looked like in front of him, but because I didn’t like him at all.
Which is kinda weird ‘cuz usually, the more I like a person, the more I DO care so the concept above didn’t make sense to me. Until I talked to my boy Scott and he said, “You usually want to be with the one you like when you aren’t feeling well.” BINGO. Because no matter how shitty you look or feel, next to some Theraflu, nothing makes you feel mo’ betta than possibly infecting the person you care about while they’re over baby-sitting your sick ass lol.
I thought about the last 3 guys who took care of me while I was sick and braved boredom by laying next to me in bed watching basic television (my room has no cable) while I did absolutely nothing but frown, and whine. They all ended up being my boyfriend (thnx for still loving me after seeing me look like death btw).
‘Cuz when we like someone enough to let them in, and see underneath the concealer and the eyeliner and the perfume and all the fake – it couldn’t be anymore REAL.