I'm on the very knife-edge of a cold. I can feel it beginning behind my eyes, and also nestling somewhere in the vicinity of my tonsils. I was so fucking close to reentering my regular life after a glorious trip abroad without coming down with a cold, but if this progresses, I will have failed just as it seemed that victory was within my grasp. I suppose that's suitably French of me, but I would have preferred to stay healthy.
So, today wasn't nearly as productive as I had hoped; I worked pretty steadily this morning, at least after I got out of bed and showered (which could have happened much earlier, since I woke up at five and should have just gotten up rather than lazing around in bed until seven or eight). I also talked to Terry, whom I hadn't spoken to in any detail since getting back from Paris, so that was nice. But sometime after noon I started to take a turn for the worse, and by three I really wasn't feeling well. So I cuddled up in bed, talked to my mom, looked for soup recipes, and then schlepped myself a few blocks down the street to pick up the ingredients for said soup.
The soup turned out to be quite lovely, and will probably be even better tomorrow - it's a roasted garlic soup with chicken and cream, and it was delish. Also, the whole house and my whole body probably smell like garlic - it called for roasting twenty cloves of garlic, and then adding another ten cloves of fresh garlic to the soup along with the roasted stuff. But it was warm and soothing and gluten-free, which was exactly what I wanted. So I ate the soup while watching some football with Terry, and now I'm going to go to bed even though it's not quite 9:30 so that I can sleep for a million hours and then make a gametime decision about whether to go to the office or whether to stay home and nurse my sadness. Goodnight!
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