I have a cold.
No big deal. Everyone gets them. Mine show up usually twice a year, fall and spring. I can only think of one October when I didn't catch cold.
It makes a certain kind of sense. Two months of pushing myself to my limits and beyond in preparation for a new school year. Constant exposure to liquid, slimy, germy kids who are a never ending source of new bugs. (On Friday one of my boys came up to me and said cheerfully, "I bet you got your cold from me!" He just giggled when I offered to give it back.) Work in a place that is marginally clean - every time I touch a door knob my hand comes away slightly sticky.
This cold is different somehow.
I have always before pushed myself through. Slowing down a bit, but still able to accomplish all of the many daily tasks that make up my life. Taking more vitamins and other remedies to damp the symptoms enough to function with relative competence. Confident that in a week all will be back to normal.
I don't have any push this time.
I'm exhausted. I'm grumpy. I'm weepy. My head and the brain it contains are both refusing to talk to me at all. Sleep provides temporary relief, but I wake up in a liquid, choking fog of confusion.
I'm mad that I'm canceling fun. My book group this afternoon. A book study tomorrow. Work on my book now. Still deciding about staying home tomorrow, but the thought of writing sub plans is overwhelming.
Listen to this. I'm whining. I never whine. I'm never so sick that I let it slow me down. I don't like being slowed down. I'm sure there's a lesson here, but my hearing isn't working any better than my thinking right now.
I'm going to go lie down now and be still. And try to let the gift of this cold reveal itself to me.