So I stayed home sick from work today, because I picked up a nasty cold that unfortunately is not the bubonic plague. I get so tired of just having a sore throat and a runny nose, rather than buboes. Sigh.
Staying home was a good idea in some respects; I may work 12 hours a day in normal circumstances, but my sole concession to work/life balance is not working in the office when I'm miserably ill. In other respects, it wasn't good at all, since I ended up sleeping from noon to four--it definitely made me feel better, but had no positive impact on my jetlag. Between all that sleep and all of the sweet tea I've imbibed to soothe my throat, I'm wide awake and surprisingly punchy. That feeling will probably not last through my 6:30am alarm, so I should consider going to bed. I hate going to bed, though--that's why I should be a novelist. I would thrive in my own little world, where the day would start at noon and last until I fall asleep over my keyboard, where I could periodically take naps in my gorgeously-arrayed bed or a gently-swaying hammock, where I could subsist on strawberry shortcake, oatmeal, steak, and Diet Coke (okay, perhaps 'thrive' isn't the best word). Instead, I need to get up at 6:30 so that I can make it to the office by eight for several hours of meetings and conference calls. Oh, joy. Wish me luck!
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