A peaceful pox, this illness. I’m not quite ill enough to be delirious or unconscious, but very much ill enough to make getting up, moving about, or trying to do more than sit still bothersome bordering on difficult. Needless to say, I’m bored to the point of screaming (only I dare not, as my head would likely explode; sinsus in an uproar as it is and throat decidedly scratchy and annoyed).
I was supposed to get the next pass on ink for the right arm today. I was supposed to go check out a new coffee shop today. I had my laptop all packed and ready to trek north into the bohemian triangle (Fremont, Ballard, Queen Anne) and get my study on somewhere, there, with plenty of freshly roasted caffiene goodness and perhaps some low-key jazz.
And it’s alarmingly beautiful outside. I can see the sky. Nary a cloud in sight.
The earliest the doctor can see me is Tuesday. So now I’m wondering if I’m over the hump or not, whether or not I should keep the Tuesday appointment, and whether or not I should attempt to soldier my way into work Monday or take the time and keep under wraps so as to further kick the hiney off of whatever is rampaging through my system.
I chuckle briefly that this would likely not be a very weighty contemplation for most I know; why is it for me? Stupid ethics. Bah. Meh. Bleh. Grrr.
Edit less than ten minutes after posting: Hah! The phone rings. Someone just read this, and called to tell me that, under threat of their doom, I better keep me arse in bed. Well then. Can’t have someone trying to kick me arse for it. Maybe they’re right and I give entirely too much to the world and not nearly enough to myself. Hrm. Hmmmmmmmmmmm…..