  Really, I am. But probably not in the way you're thinking. Let's keep our minds in a PG-rated place, people! So then, I mean this pretty darn literally, actually. When it comes to sickness, injury, convalescence in general, I'm what you might call a trail blazer. I've never broken an arm, had pnuemonia, or mono.
Although in high school I used to long for mono... nothing sounded more appealing to my teenage self than being forced to sleep all day. Actually, that still does hold some appeal, but now I have to pay my own bills, so scratch that thought. No, when I go down, it always seems to be some crazy little thing gone awry. The only bone I ever broke was in my left ring finger, when I was 15. I was upstairs in my bedroom, and suddenly became filled with righteous rage at my mother for reasons I could not remember if I tried. In my indignance, I attempted to descend the staircase while simultaneously stomping and hurrying.
Not a great combo for the stairs. My foot caught on one of those carpet-pieces that people bond to the tops of steps, and in an effort to catch myself, I flung a hand out to the bannister--not so much in a grab, but in more of a flailing 'smack'. But wait, it gets better! The x-rays revealed that the bone had pretty much 'poofed'. They gave it a few months to heal, but it never got around to it. So I had to go into surgery, where they took a slice of bone from my hip and fashioned a new finger bone.
Yes, that's right, I broke my stupid finger and ended up having surgery. Then there's the bikini-line saga. Yeah, most gals get an ingrown at some point. No biggie, right? You tweeze the sucker, clean it out with some rubbing alcohol, maybe rub in a little Neosporin, and you're good to go! Ah yes, unless you're me.
I did all the above, but it kept getting more and more inflamed, and in a couple of days I had a fever and chills. I take my happy self to the ER, where they give me antibiotics and send me home. The next day, the thing is the size of a golf ball (I know, sexy, right? ), and I'm feeling like leftover death casserole. I traipse back to the ER, where they see fit to 'debride' it. Don't be fooled... debriding does sound (to those of us medically uneducated) like something that would happen in a bodice-ripper.
Alas, it's nothing of the sort. It was, bar none, the most painful time in my life thus far. They should really knock people out for this sort of thing. So they chopped me all up but good and sent me home for a few more days of feeling horrible and two weeks of not being able to swim. Yes, all this from a bikini-line ingrown. Say it with me ladies... shave WITH the grain, never against!!!
Fast forward to now. Over the weekend my nose got sore-ish. I figured it was the beginning stages of a pimple, one of those that take a few days to show up, but then you finally can get a good satisfying pop out of. I decided to let it run its course, but yesterday it was really getting painful. I tried popping it, to no avail, as it's inside my nostril. Each time I got close, the tears running down my face made my fingers slip, dagnabit.
So with my part-time roomie falling off the couch laughing at me, I went to the Urgent Care clinic (which I've found is much faster, and cheaper, than the ER. I recommend it!). Turns out I have an ingrown nose hair! Ew! Since girls aren't supposed to even HAVE nose hair, this is particularly alarming. Fortunately, they opted against debriding for the time being, opting instead to give me drugs that are magically supposed to make it all better.
They also make me higher than a kite, but that's another story. Maybe someday I'll get a nice ordinary malady. Strep throat perhaps, a nice sprained ankle. Something that when people ask, "what's wrong? " won't require an explanation. Til then, I'll just get sick in my own uniquely complicated way.
Time to go breathe in some moist heat and take more drugs. In lieu of flowers, send sweet & sour chicken. 
