Mending and Tea

Standard

I didn’t think that I would have to start mending my own clothes so early in the year. I’m just two and a half weeks in, and I’m having to prick my fingers till holes are patched. All because my yoga pants failed me. It is too early to learn homemaking skills! But fear not, I pricked myself so many times I am pretty sure I’ll need to use a stain stick on my yoga pants. And I’m going to need a band-aid for my index finger. And some thread that won’t break. I had taken a photo to prove that I am [somewhat] self-sufficient, but for some reason, photos aren’t uploading at all. Boo.

I guess it was good to have something to take my mind off how miserable my roommate Courtney and I were feeling. Somehow we were two of the lucky souls who caught the first campus-wide illness this semester. Essentially I have spent 3 days in bed living off of chicken broth, gatorade, ginger ale, rice crisps and instant mashed potatoes. Our other roommates, Kaylee and Kelly, seemed to be entirely happy to play mom.

After nearly a week of my stomach being upset, Kelly finally convinced me to let her brew me a cup of her ‘imported’ blend of African redbush tea. And let me tell you, that concoction tastes like tar. But there was no escaping her. She sat crosslegged at the end of my bed, nursing her own cup of tea, fixing me with a calm, determined stare. There was no fighting it. We hadn’t any honey or sugar to add to make it taste less tar-like (I highly doubt she would have let me use it, anyway). She made me drink it, badgering me to sip at the foul-tasting liquid till it was gone. She swears by it’s medicinal qualities, saying it would cure my nausea without any problems, that President Monson drinks it, even that one of the brethren in her home ward drank it to ease the symptoms of his radiation and chemotherapy treatments and that it lessened the pain.

But I was a bad patient. She left for a few minutes to switch her laundry and I sprinted over and dumped half of it down the sink, leaving a few millimeters in the mug to drain under her supervision. Courtney laughed – but she wasn’t subjected to torture by Afrikana tea. I’m waiting until Kelly ambushes her with the putrid smelling concoction.

And I’m not going to tell Kelly that I think it helped a bit. It’s not my pride that’s sick. It’s my stomach.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s