Tuesday, Sept. 06, 2005
Dear Diary:

I hate giving in to illness. I'm of the school that believes that if you ignore illness it will go away.

Oh be quiet. Does too make sense.

So yesterday morning when I found myself pressing my sweaty forehead against the cool porcelain of the toilet, having just deposited my breakfast in said toilet, I didn't admit that the virus that had started kicking my butt the night before had now gotten the best of me.

No, what I did was insist on heading up into the woods with the spousal unit to pick rocks for my rock wall. A little fresh air, a little exercise, yeah, that was the ticket, I told myself.

And then on my third trip back down I felt the world swirling around me, and my body alternating between chills and sweats. My aged carcass gave me two options I couldn't ignore—pass out in the woods, or surrender and admit I was sick.

So, as the Victorian ladies used to do, I took to my sick bed.

The cats immediately joined me because what could be better than velcroing your fuzzy body to a feverish human? Whenever I woke up from one of my odd, disjointed dreams there they were on either side of me, stretching and purring softly. There's a world of comfort in a cat.

I gradually started feeling better today and by suppertime rallied enough to scrape leftovers together for a rather odd supper—pulao rice coupled with spare ribs, fish, squash and green salad. Altogether now: ewwwwwwwwwww.

When the spousal unit came home he wanted to head up into the woods and clean up some of the rocks left over from another project of his. I offered to help. He looked concerned. I mentioned that even if I just stood around and got some fresh air, it was better than moping away in the house, so reluctantly he agreed that I could come with him.

As we were shovelling rocks into the bucket of the tractor, without thinking I critiqued what we were doing. I mentioned that the tractor bucket could be tilted higher, that we could grab the edges of the plastic and pull the rocks in closer, stuff such as that. Oh, but I was a veritable stream of nagging creative solutions to his project, the project I had interjected myself into without invitation.

The spousal unit started to laugh.

"It's good to see you back to your old self," he grinned.

Oh yes, he's definitely a keeper.

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 912.93 miles. 10 per cent rubber duck10 per cent rubber duck10 per cent rubber duck10 per cent rubber duckhalf way smooch10 per cent rubber duck Over half way there. Oh, man, please let this be over

Goal for 2005: 1,250 miles - 2000 kilometers


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