I know this is pathetic, but it's almost 2 in the afternoon and I'm still in my pajamas. Well, they are not pajamas technically, but I would never leave the house in this 1999 Dave Matthews concert t-shirt, now full of holes, and a pair of J.Jill sweats that have never --despite their price--been worthy of wearing in public. But I'm tired and my throat hurts (as it has since Sunday) and I really haven't stopped since I started vacation. Seriously. (As my niece Meredith would say, appropriately anticipating shock or, more commonly, disbelief at hyperbole). Oh, and it's crappy out.
I don't want to sound whiny or histrionic but I haven't felt well since Sunday when I sprouted two lovely cold sores and woke with a sore throat that is now settling into a chest cold. And honestly, I don’t need to make excuses. I could feel like running a marathon (okay, scratch that, maybe that's a little overboard). I could feel like doing my exercise DVD twice in a row and cleaning a closet and I think I would still opt to do nothing today. ( I just honestly don’t happen to feel very well.) Because I can.
So after two cups of coffee and twice as many hours of coverage about Michael Jackson (Rest in Peace) I decided to make my third coffee iced, with a few add-ins. (God Bless Jen Lancaster who took the words out of my mouth in Bitter is the New Black when she wrote, “I adore White Russians because they dare to combine my favorite ingredients: sugar, fat, caffeine, and alcohol. I do so love empty carbohydrates.”)
And now I am on my second, watching Wimbledon, wondering why I ever stopped playing tennis, hoping (but not really) the sun will come out, waiting for a demi-baguette to thaw, happy to have leftovers in the refrigerator from Deanna’s visit, even happier that I didn’t have to leave lesson plans today to take care of me.