Hello world! I have finally emerged out of the apartment 64 grueling hours after quickly hobbling back from the park on a gorgeous, somewhat-summery day to make my first date (of many) with the toilet.
Yes, I got food poisoning. From what? No idea. The things that make me the most ill to ponder are basil and a particular honey-vodka-lemon drink (aka coughdrop-flavored) cocktail I had on Saturday night, but I’m pretty sure these aren’t the culprits.
Regardless, I spent half of Sunday willing myself to die, all of Monday too weak to move, and all of Tuesday trying not to move so my head didn’t explode, coaxing myself into eating more than 3/4 of a slice of dry toast (my previous day’s record), and weighing myself to figure out precisely where 8 lbs went in 3 days (not someplace good, like AWAY FOREVER, I’m afeared). And then (and then!) I get to be a woman, too.
Crazy. Horrible. Please never again.
Anyway, I’m back in the land of the living. After a pathetic morning of shaking, tears, and desperate attempts by Aussie to get me to take some painkillers (really, it was quite a sight), I finally loaded myself in the car and got myself to work. Five hours later, I have a question…
Can I go home now?
I’ve encountered far more than my quota of stupid people per hour. I’m wearing Danskos and have a heater on full blast at my feet… and it looks to be about 12 degrees outside (it’s not, of course — it’s a sweltering 52!!!!). I consider it a victory that I ate about 15 saltines and applesauce. I have a heating pad strapped to my stomach. I mean, REALLY!
So really, real life? I think I’m done with you today. I think it’s time for me to take my saltines and my wonderbread and go back home, where I can warm, oblivious, and without the stupids.