"Irony regards every simple truth as a challenge." - Mason Cooley
After a couple of days of feeling miserable, I broke down and went to see the doctor yesterday. He charged me a couple of hundred dollars (well, technically, he charged me $10 and will bill my insurance for the rest) to agree with me that I have the flu. He disagreed, though, on what I should do about it. I've always taken the Iron Man approach to life: if it doesn't kill me, it makes me stronger. That, and it's better to be at work getting stuff done miserably than to be at home getting nothing done miserably. He disagreed with the latter, though; apparently I'm contagious for longer than I thought I might be, and since everybody else at home already has the flu, it made more sense to him (and to me, I suppose) that I expose the already-sick to my coughing and hacking.
Thus, homeward I went, after picking up the prescription of the nice new anti-viral pills they have. It struck me as odd at first; in my early years they repeated medicinal wisdom such as "there is no cure for a virus" and "feed a cold, starve a fever" and "don't do that; you'll grow hair on your palms." But times change, and so now twice a day I'm popping a pill that has been clinically proven to kill virus bugs. Who knew?
I spent much of yesterday in a fantastically normal state of not-rest. I think I managed to send/receive several hundred e-mails through my accounts (hey, e-mails never spread that kind of virus). I wrote quite a bit on a story. I generally got lots of stuff done.
Today, though, I promised myself that I'd actually rest. As in staying out of e-mails and such. And not writing.
So here I am, writing about not writing.
Have a great weekend!