I've had to pull myself out of languor, out of sloth, out of general pukiness. Something had taken over my body, something unnamable because I can't name it, something un-diagnosable, because I hate going to the doctor.
My muscles hurt, my skin was tight, I was hot I was cold I was hot I was cold, and my body was producing science experiments more times a day than any human needs to deal with.
I was flu-ish, I suppose. It sounds worse than it is. God knows, there are those who suffer on their good days more than I do on my bad, so I should suck it up a little, except that I don't. I never do. I hope that the phrase "one day, she'll learn..." never applies to me.
Eleven days away, and only a week after deplaning do I feel in any way normal again. I love holidays, but man, I hate the withdrawal. I love saying that I never bother with lying-in-the-sun-relaxation holidays, but I hate the exhaustion that catches up with me when I come home. The absolute inability to focus on one thought because I'm so tired, so tired, so tired, and the only therapy is the complete first season of Dawson's Creek on DVD, and a refusal to wear anything but pajamas for two days straight.
I joke about it now, but in reality poppets, I felt like absolute shite. I've still got a touch of the bug, because food still makes my stomach feel like molten lava, but at least my joints don't feel a thousand years old.
I've so much to tell, and so little to tell. Is it possible that it was too many days away, without the words 'business trip' to ease the guilt? (Is it possible that I've spent 25 days out of the country so far this year? Twenty-nine days in the past 12 months? I just did the math...)
More soon, poppets. I've a whole trip to share, now that I'm halfway-to-peppy again.
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