Tuesday, March 8, 2016

At Least It's Not A Dirt Nap

Monday: At the end of this day, I've spent at least a third of it napping. Just sorting and organizing a few papers knocked me out. My back is breaking badly, I can't see worth a damn, and my gastrointestinal system is feeling the burn.  Night sleep is elusive; I wake up every hour or two only to become active for the next two hours, working on Project Zero, adding some pithy verbiage to the blog, or rereading any one of the Heinlein novels on my night table. Nothing restful in that mix.

Daily napping is the new normal. I don't know what I would do if I had to actually be someplace in the afternoon, much less communicate coherently with an authority figure.

I had plans for today, Tuesday, but the fibro had other ideas. Part of the problem is that I've never really completely shaken off this viral thing that triggered the horrid fibro flare a few weeks ago. I'm tired of getting beaten up by microscopic nonbiologics that I can't freaking see. Not that I can see much of anything these days, but I might feel better if I could land a nice hard front kick, or even one of my wicked, board-breaking elbow strikes, at the virus' nonexistent head. That is so-not-tai-chi that I should be ashamed of myself, but when I feel the need to defend, it's the taekwondo that comes to mind.

"A long time ago ..."

"... in a galaxy far, far away."

I woke up much too late, ruining my schedule, feeling like that viral thing was back in full swing, and that led me down the path of depression, but I reached a fork in the road and spent 10 minutes listening to an interview of Peter Capaldi and now I'm as right as rain. Which just goes to show that sometimes, it is all about finding the right doctor.

I am working on a recipe for stuffed artichokes involving Mexican chorizo. When I have the wherewithal to proceed, I'll bring you into the loop. In this case, wherewithal includes the ability to stand on my feet without wanting to fall down into a frog crouch. Maybe tomorrow.

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