Actually written at 3 p.m. (ish)
In the background my current favorite CD by Counting Crows, New Amsterdam, is playing. Again. Walking past my bathroom, I see the red flicker of the spicy votive candle in its glass holder, the only one remaining from a boxed trio that was a gift last Christmas. There's a load of laundry finishing its spin cycle on the other end of the house. For an hour I've been laying on this sprawling, huggy green sofa reading back issues of The New Yorker. Every ten to fifteen minutes I get up to let Emma The Dog inside or outside, depending. The two cats, Gypsy and Lucy, are less fickle than the dog. If either wants a change of scenery, they just wait for her and walk in or out next time around.
Meanwhile, I'm still sick. I can tell because of my complete and utter lack of energy. This morning before my current housemates left for the mountains, I had a momentary sense of anxiousness, wondering if they think I'm always this dull. This lifeless. Then two things occurred to me: 1. We've been friends for more than 5 years. They've met me before. Therefore they're more than a little familiar with my usual energy level. And 2. They didn't invite me to to move in because they expected me to be the life of the party. After all, Emma The Dog lives here every day of her life.
When I decided a bubble bath was the most glorious thing I could imagine today, but that all of my bottles of bubbly potions and oils made for the bath are in storage, I wouldn't be daunted. This new shampoo I'm using smells so yummy, and lathers better than most, so clearly I had a solution. It worked, too. In the glow of that candle plus a few others I borrowed from the linen closet (no worries - I have plenty to contribute to the household collection; they'll be promptly replaced,) I enjoyed true decadence. And now, freshly scrubbed, hair all shiny and clean, legs all smooth, there's energy left for absolutely nothing more than sprawling right here. The TV remote is nearby, for just in case. Nearby sits my fourth or fifth glass of water of the day. And my phone, which is set to vibrate, just scared me silly when it went off from where it'd slipped underneath my back. The ex who seems to be becoming a friend called from his fun at a racetrack to say he thought it'd be polite to make sure I hadn't changed my mind and was I absolutely positive I didn't want to come enjoy some low-brow weekend Nascar entertainment? Hm. Let me think about that one for a minute. Yea, um, okay, I've thought about it. But thanks for the offer, anyway.
Outside the leaves are rustling and this morning I noticed a hammock in the back yard I'd forgotten about. I could just go take my magazine or book out there and read under the trees. If I felt so inclined. Emma just booted part of me out of her way and now she's curled at my feet. Her Mom told me earlier, "She's been raised to be a cat." It's true, too. Such an affectionate, cuddly pet could only be a cat. A big, floppy-eared cat with a happily wagging tail.
Maybe later I'll go to storage and get some more hang-up clothes for the office on Monday, then on to where somebody will agreeably offer me the use of Wi-Fi in exchange for my purchase of a cup of coffee. And I'll see if there are any emails waiting, and post this to my blog. Even the thought of that much activity, though, makes me more tired than when I started writing. Good thing I don't have anywhere I absolutely have to be, eh? And that this sofa is so comfy. And that this lab loves me so much. If you've gotta' be sick, it doesn't get any better than this. Not unless you take a nap, that is. Nap. Now there's a thought!
PS: Nascar doesn't appear in Squarespace's spellcheck. In case you were wondering.