Update: if you’re tired of hearing about sick people, you can just skip this post and take thirty seconds to watch my healthy, 5’11”, 17-year-old brother dunk.
My husband and I have embarked on an intense weight loss program to jump start the New Year. It’s called the stomach flu.
I suppose I was unspecific when I said, “Need to get to the gym more.” It’s important to have specific and measureable goals. Dear universe, when I said that bit about the gym, I meant that I wanted to rebuild muscle, not lose what faint traces are left after the last three-month-long monstrous thing. I had about two good weeks, where I even bought a new workout video, downloaded some free Pilates routines, and hit the gym exactly two times. And then back to this.
All through the fall I talked about wanting just one day to be sick enough to spend it in bed. A good excuse, an unarguable demand for recovery, since I can’t just take care of myself, no . . . Now I’ve had my deathly illness and the day off that I requested, spent almost 100% of that day in bed – and I’m grumpy about it. Hard to please. (I’ll say it.)
I slept in two hour increments yesterday, and every time I awoke, I was thinking, “It’s circle time . . . now it’s lunch time and H is dropping yogurt on his shirt . . . it’s nap time, but M is probably awake by now and waking everyone up early screaming for M-O-M,” and feeling guilty for not being there, since days are always harder without regular teachers.
It also seems our power has been reconnected, maybe seventy-five days after Hurricane Sandy zapped our house, and today’s high is something like sixty beautiful degrees Fahrenheit. It’s a perfect day for taking a hammer to some 1938 plastered walls, but I am still more or less bedridden – and also, completely not helpful – definitely being targeted and bombarded by stink bugs – and my husband is only at the doorway of his stomach flu journey, waiting for something to “happen.”
Godspeed you in your journey.