I’m sorry, everyone, for my lack of writing prowess last week. Rain clouds and scattered showers invaded my hot Texas summer and brought with them every last particle of allergy-ridden air. When I was a kid, I didn’t suffer like this. The only thing I was allergic to then was down, which was easy to avoid. The allergy to the fluffy softness did cut out my option to time travel to plush homes in ante-bellum or Victorian era times, but I thought of other things to do. Now I am stuck in buildings all day in which they pump cool recycled air through the vents, and I get sprinkled with all of the dust and germs from the 5,ooo plus occupants.

As an asthmatic, I rush into action to crush the allergy attack. If I let it linger, the allergies turn into a sinus infection, and I turn into a mouth-breather. That leads to all out warfare to stave off Bronchitis. Asthma and Bronchitis are those neighbors that build an eight-foot high fence between each other because someone at some point didn’t RSVP on time to the Fourth of July block party or the kids’ My Little Pony bash or the Next Great Thing MLM. It’s localized chaos—in my lungs.

I tried to write you something pretty and witty, but my synapses weren’t firing correctly due to all of the snot and antihistamines. I did spend time admiring the teal ink color of my newest gel pen as I doodled various things on my white sheet legal pad. My brain wasn’t getting enough oxygen as I hunched over the desk, mouth agape, trying to suck in enough air to think. I felt like a kid trying to catch their breath before they tattled on their brother (which I did, a lot). It was that kind of mouth breathing.

I am not good at being sick. Even in my delirium, I have to be doing something. Do not recommend I sit down and rest. Don’t bring up taking a nap. I have things to get done. Don’t I? Somewhere in the haze of my thoughts is a to-do list that needs doing. I’m sure of it. So I get to work doing things which don’t need to be done.

One time, when I had the flu for a few days and was confined to my house, I taught myself to knit. I made two scarves and a hat for my dad during said illness. My mom hates the hat, but Dad loves it. I don’t care either way. Learning to knit kept me occupied, and I gained a new skill. During yet another illness, I completely repainted the house. I had painted it the month before, but the living rooms walls bothered me as they started to close in on my boredom. Their pale yellow color threatened me with their semi-bright cheeriness, so they had to go.

I don’t understand the people who can lie around, wallowing in used tissues and chicken noodle soup. My soul needs more than mere soup. It needs over-the-counter drug fueled purpose. When I’m fine and dandy again, it’s a bit depressing the purpose couldn’t have been a little more purposeful—and actually on the to-do list.