I am rarely ill. Hearty peasant stock is how our family refers to the fact that TBG is laid prostrate with what barely bothers me. If I do come down with something, it doesn't last more than 24 hours. I go to sleep and wake up refreshed and healthy.
Would that that had happened last night.
Instead, I was up every three hours, medicating and whimpering and coughing and achy. TBG knows not to disturb me when I'm in this state; where he requires hugs and rubs, I desire to be left alone. Don't touch my fevered brow. Just let me wallow in self-pity, and then heal.
Unfortunately, I didn't heal last night. I woke up this morning just as congested as I was when I lay my head on my pillow last night. I'm alternately sweating and freezing. I can't fall asleep, but the words I'm reading in the library book are swimming in my brain, not really making connections. I keep forgetting who the characters are.
I've picked up the pre-ordered groceries. I'm doing laundry. These chores were required by time and circumstance. The fun stuff I had planned - squats at the gym, re-potting the tulip bulbs I'd forced inside, organizing the yarn and its concomitant supplies, sweeping the clutter off the desk in hopes of replacing it with some kind of order - all that is still available to be done.... if only I could muster the energy.
So, the sun is shining, the pool is welcoming and I'm slumped on Douglas-the-couch, coughing and sniffling and generally feeling wretched. I don't think it's the flu or anything more than a common cold. I don't think I'm going to be sick forever. I imagine that tomorrow or the next day I'll wake up with a clear head and all the energy I need to do what I need to get done.
Unfortunately, right now that's in the future. My present consists of super soft Kleenex and a good book I'll probably have to reread if I want to remember any of it at all.
Thanks for listening to me whine.