Letter from My 48th Year (Jan 26)
A gorgeously sunny day—just perfect for moping. I’m home sick, not sick enough to be bedridden, but sick enough that any expenditure of energy, like washing out yesterday’s coffee cup, leaves me worn out. I’m tired but can’t manage more than half hour or so of sleep before I’m tossing and turning and railing against how dull and wrong everything feels. Sure I can get through a corneal transplant or major abdominal surgery with my spirit and sense of humor intact. But give me your garden variety cold/sinus infection, which my dear body is valiantly trying to fight off, and it feels like the 7th circle of hell. Hence the moping.
Nothing to do but have yet another tete a tete with Messr. Poirot. I’m on the blue couch, and he’s on the Orient Express. Miss Sarton is waiting patiently by my bed, but I’m too sleepy to read though my uncooperative body refuses to be sleepy enough for me to actually sleep.
I’m trying to remind myself that getting one bout of plague for the season is infinitely better than a couple of years ago where I had sinus infection after sinus infection and I teleworked most of the week because my allergies had gotten so bad that the minute I stepped outside my head felt stopped up with cotton wool. Mopey me, however, doesn’t seem to care that this version of the plague is actually progress.
Right now I don’t remember what it’s like to be clear-headed and energetic. And I know by some time next week, I’ll have forgotten what it’s like to be lethargic and muddled.
I’ll end this here as my five minutes of energy seems to be up and the couch—which is right next to the table at which I’m typing this—suddenly seems miles away. Not to mention, I have to take a wee, and the bathroom might as well be in the next county.
Sigh, my friends, sigh…