Or: Why Blog Posts Now Come in a Flurry
The latest problem in the realm of 'be careful what you wish for' has surfaced in my world. Apparently the universe decided to interpret my desire for a bit of rest to de-stress and recharge as: let's give her the flu and knock her out for three days. That'll require her to rest and so it's sort of the same thing, right? Right?
Being stuck in bed for three days because you're incapable of being up for more than ten minutes without falling over or bumping into things is not the same as choosing to lounge in bed and relax when you could be running eight hundred errands. Having the time to be able to write, read, or veg in front of the telly loses its appeal when it's all your capable of doing and is interrupted not infrequently by the need to fall back on your pillow and pass out for a few hours.
I'd much rather my brain not be on overdrive during these couple hours of lucidity a day as all it does is ram home how incapacitated I am. I can think of great and productive things to do with my time (or just productive), but all I can manage is to contemplate before wheezily hacking up half a lung.
It's only mid-February and so far I've had a two-week Death Cold and now a minimum-three-day Death Flu this year. I shudder to think what March might bring.
Still, my time in bed has instilled one drive in me: to stay the hell out of my bed as much as possible in the coming weeks. Three days stuck in it not of my own will/desire is enough to make me want to stay busy for the rest of the month.