Sick

The muse has been silent here for the past almost week, thanks to a vicious upper respiratory infection that hit both Fellow Traveler and myself. Its intensity ebbed and flowed for five days – Thursday afternoon I was Dead Woman Walking through our agency’s annual volunteer appreciation luncheon; Friday night, as noted, FT and I were well enough to go out of town to dinner; but then on Saturday we both wound up sick and bed; and so on and so forth.
Yesterday I rallied enough to return to work, although my brain felt as if it were struggling to labor underneath a thick application of chewing gum, and I even went to the gym for a half-hearted go-round on the treadmill.
You’d have thought that with all my abundant free time over the weekend I’d have something interesting and/or insightful to write about. But I didn’t. No; I lay there with glazed eyes toggling the remote between BBC America and “The First 48.” On Black Monday it was only by accident that I happened to catch MSNBC and find out about Wall Street imploding. At that point I was so immersed in virally induced self-pity that all I could think was, “As if I don’t feel bad enough already.”