Today will be my 8th day in bed in a row. I have a cold.
I hate being sick. I really do. It’s about the most boring thing that could possibly happen to a person. I picked up this little cold of mine just over a week ago and I am now sick of television, reading, writing, bed, coughing, blowing my nose, drinking hot-lemon-and-ginger-and-honey-drink-stuff, looking at the photos I took of my holiday when I was healthy, thinking about the photos I still have to pick up from the photo-printing place which I haven’t done because I have been in bed, and listening to music.
The bunny hutch with its tarp, taken from my window, because going outside is bad for you when you’re sick.
Do you know what I want to do? I want to go for a run. I haven’t been running in nearly a year, unless you count that time I was trying to catch the bus. I haven’t wanted to run in nearly a year. Right now though, I want to go running. Right now it’s raining so much we had to tarp the bunny hutch. I have never wanted to go running in the rain. You know the other thing I want to do? I want to run to the top of the rather steep hill I live on and look at the view of clouds and rain over the city. It’s a spectacular view from up there on a clear day, but on a rainy day, it’s just grey and not much else. Right now, it seems like the view of grey-clouds-and-not-much-else would be heavenly.
Eight days in bed means another thing too. It means I won’t be getting paid anything on payday. This idea fills me with a sinking feeling of sadness because I won’t be adding anything to my savings account (I know it’s a lame goal in life, but it makes me feel like working is a way to achieve something). This doesn’t mean much really, because I don’t live paycheck to paycheck, so technically I have enough money to last me til the end of my life, provided I die by New Year’s Eve. It also doesn’t mean much, because I’ve been in bed for eight days, not out spending money for eight days. So the money I had in my account last week is all still there. I still wish I was getting paid on payday though.
I also want to leave the house. I want to leave my room. Do you know how mind-numbing it is to not have a choice in whether you can leave a single room or not? It’s plain nasty. Normally I don’t choose to leave my room when I’m not working, and I don’t have a problem with it then. But when you take away the choice, suddenly the thing you often choose is unappealing and lame. I like my room. I really do. I mean, I wish it was bigger, cleaner, more house-sized and house-shaped, and that it had a garden and a verandah, and more rooms, and a dog, and space for a bunny, but I like my room. It’s where I keep my stuff. I don’t normally want to leave it, but right now I feel like I could walk out of here and never look back. It’s a strange feeling.
Anyhoo, I suppose I’ll start writing letters or something so that I have something to do today that requires little energy. Star jumps are apparently out of the question when you’re ill. As is skipping, running, walking, doing the washing, making pizza, and being anything but bored.
I hope you are all the spitting image of good health and happiness,
Meggi K.
