I slept fourteen hours last night and woke up feeling almost over my cold of yesterday––and grateful it didn't bloom into a real head-clogger.
It was the sort of mild cold I could have soldiered through, but in my experience, STOPPING when illness is coming on is a better bet, if you can swing it.
I only work 20 hours a week (feels like more!), so it's not a big deal to take a couple days off––I'll work Weds. through Saturday and get all my hours in.
And I love that it doesn't burden anyone else if I move my days around, unlike when I worked in health care. If I couldn't make a shift then, coworkers had to carry a heavier load and patients went without some care.
Not sick enough to be miserable, yesterday I lay around on the couch all day, drank a gallon of lemon-ginger water (boiled lemon & grated fresh ginger, watered way down), ate clementines, and looked at Bill Cunningham street-fashion photos.
Feeling mostly well, this morning I took myself to coffee in the atrium of the nearby art museum. It's all of six blocks away, but I rarely go. Going to museums is like going to church--cultural rituals of my tribe that gave me a lot at one time, but that now feel hollow, or even annoying.
This morning, however, I felt like being somewhere spacious and clean––and having a good croissant. Almost $7 for a croissant and coffee--that's the sort of thing that annoys me. But . . . it's artisanal!
I got my money's worth in table rent:
I sat for three hours and wrote a letter.
On paper.
With a pen.
Except for writing to a couple pals in prison in recent years, I almost never write real [paper] letters anymore, not since my last remaining correspondent who is not in prison, my ninety-three-year-old auntie, got an iPhone when she turned ninety.
This morning I was responding to a letter from a friend who lives in town. She teaches English classes online, which she loves, but I think it makes her miss paper.
At any rate, a couple weeks ago she wrote me about a book I'd lent her: the novel Nothing Happened (1948), by Norwegian writer Ebba Haslund––one of my favorite books.
My friend made all sorts of interesting points, and I was looking forward to reading them again, but when I took out my spiral notebook, her letter, which I'd thought I'd tucked in it, wasn't there.
Ergh. Physical things.
They move around!
Not like e-correspondence, which stays right where I put it (unless I accidentally delete it).
Also, without an electronic device, I had no dictionary with me––and I could not remember how to spell precocious without making several false starts.
So, it was a real letter:
with messy X-ed out mistakes!
I put it in the mailbox on my way home.
It was the sort of mild cold I could have soldiered through, but in my experience, STOPPING when illness is coming on is a better bet, if you can swing it.
I only work 20 hours a week (feels like more!), so it's not a big deal to take a couple days off––I'll work Weds. through Saturday and get all my hours in.
And I love that it doesn't burden anyone else if I move my days around, unlike when I worked in health care. If I couldn't make a shift then, coworkers had to carry a heavier load and patients went without some care.
Not sick enough to be miserable, yesterday I lay around on the couch all day, drank a gallon of lemon-ginger water (boiled lemon & grated fresh ginger, watered way down), ate clementines, and looked at Bill Cunningham street-fashion photos.
Feeling mostly well, this morning I took myself to coffee in the atrium of the nearby art museum. It's all of six blocks away, but I rarely go. Going to museums is like going to church--cultural rituals of my tribe that gave me a lot at one time, but that now feel hollow, or even annoying.
This morning, however, I felt like being somewhere spacious and clean––and having a good croissant. Almost $7 for a croissant and coffee--that's the sort of thing that annoys me. But . . . it's artisanal!
I got my money's worth in table rent:
I sat for three hours and wrote a letter.
On paper.
With a pen.
Except for writing to a couple pals in prison in recent years, I almost never write real [paper] letters anymore, not since my last remaining correspondent who is not in prison, my ninety-three-year-old auntie, got an iPhone when she turned ninety.
This morning I was responding to a letter from a friend who lives in town. She teaches English classes online, which she loves, but I think it makes her miss paper.
At any rate, a couple weeks ago she wrote me about a book I'd lent her: the novel Nothing Happened (1948), by Norwegian writer Ebba Haslund––one of my favorite books.
My friend made all sorts of interesting points, and I was looking forward to reading them again, but when I took out my spiral notebook, her letter, which I'd thought I'd tucked in it, wasn't there.
Ergh. Physical things.
They move around!
Not like e-correspondence, which stays right where I put it (unless I accidentally delete it).
Also, without an electronic device, I had no dictionary with me––and I could not remember how to spell precocious without making several false starts.
So, it was a real letter:
with messy X-ed out mistakes!
I put it in the mailbox on my way home.
I miss writing letters but nowadays when I do try my hand cramps badly! I’m not sure if that’s disuse or old age.
ReplyDeleteMy handwriting muscles ARE weak, for sure-- and my handwriting was terrible at the end.
ReplyDeleteI think it's both age & disuse, in my case.