I have spent the first part of March feverishly doing laundry. Not feverishly as in fast, but as in, I have a fever and laundry is about all I can manage.
Actually, the first day of March I was still in Michigan, on a lovely visit with my parents, but I could tell that I'd caught a cold.
The second day in March I got us packed out of there and sheparded myself and Rosie home on a fairly direct noon flight. Then I fell over, while Brian took the kiddo kite flying. I dragged myself out of bed to eat soup and go to my history writer's group, which only meets quarterly, after which I was done.
The next few days are kind of a feverish blur. I ache all over, including my eye sockets. My cough, though rare, sounds horrid, and wracks my whole body. I could tell I was still not well last night, when I took to bed early and did not read, but rather simply turned out the light and crashed.
Today I put breakfast on the table, got folks out the door, did dishes, and *then* laid down, a huge improvement.
If only I had wings and had just flown a marathon, it would provide a much more interesting story as to why those parts of my back are so sore.