Sometimes, there’s simply nothing one can do to rouse oneself from one’s torpor, and actually extract oneself from the fetid pit that is one’s bed. Today has been one of those days. I am still there, wrapped in my dressing gown (or robe, as it apparently comes to be known after midday – when does it revert?), listening to the six o’clock news, and contemplating the creation of fishcakes for dinner.
I am still there because I am moderately unwell. I have what is commonly called a stinking cold, along with its concomitant sore throat and general feeling of fuzziness. My neck hurts, my chest hurts. My thumb hurts (though this is not connected to my cold. It comes courtesy of a cricket ball), and my shoulder, such an irritation since my bad fall in December (not that kind of bad fall, the ju-jitsu kind of bad fall) has been strapped up by a physiotherapist so while it doesn’t hurt for a change, it’s rather lacking utility, as I can only move it through 50 or 60% of its usual movement. Even Ginger seems listless and enervated.
I have spent the day writing – well, editing – my kids’ book. I wish I could say that it has been a successful day, but I fear that most of today’s edits are flaccid, fuzzy, slightly scummy. Remarkably similar to the way I feel. I have no spark, no energy, no … vocabulary.
So considering my utter feebleness, and the manner in which this is transferred into my writing, why on earth am I blogging?
This is a good, good question.
I think it’s something to do with control, with expectation, with my future.
Right now, my lethargy and [pick another word which seems to work] are the result of a virus. A wee beastie has invaded my system, and all of the symptoms from which I suffer are, oddly enough, signs of my body kicking the living crap out of it. Now that is irony.
I have already noted how odd it is to suffer from a cold, to feel all of the symptoms. These days, you slip yourself a lemsip fuck-me-I’m-practically-crack max and the symptoms are gently massaged away. One of the drugs I take, Rasagiline, prevents such things. It reacts with the decongestants and can cause unpleasantries associated with the heart. Again ironic considering yesterday.
It’s doubly ironic because eventually I’ll feel rancid, flaccid, fuzzy and woolly. But it will not be an external invader, and the symptoms will not be signs that I’m fucking that little virus up … it will be my own body fucking with itself, and the symptoms will be simply be signs that my body is failing. They won’t get better. They will simply increase.
To know that I’ll be doing it to myself will be rather irritating. To say the least.